A locker slams violently — too deliberate to be just a slip of a hand or misplaced force. Kiyoomi knows how things work around here now, so he braces himself for the yell, in three, two…
Ah, so it’s Hinata today. It’s Hinata a good amount of the time, but it’s more likely to be Atsumu or Bokuto. Sometimes it’s Inunaki, but he can talk his way out of anything, while Atsumu, Hinata, and Bokuto seem to lose all brain function when they’re called out.
The call-outs can be anything — more often than not, it has to do with their gameplay. Inunaki will miss a dig and get whipped with a towel; Hinata will blank out when going to spike and the ball will fly past his hand, earning him at least six minutes of uninterrupted locker room laughter; Atsumu will say something rude and get berated the entire time he changes. They don’t stick to professionalism, though — not in the slightest. There have been plenty of times where everybody will be minding their business and suddenly, chaos reigns down on them after Inunaki comes across a questionable photo from Bokuto’s Instagram, or Tomas admits to something scandalous in broken Japanese.
The locker room is a jungle, Kiyoomi has learned, and even after a year on this team, he hasn’t mastered the art of showering quickly enough to get out before the nonsense can start. Kiyoomi has been on the receiving end of it more than once — every now and then he makes an off-hand comment that gets construed as ‘ridiculous’ or ‘incredibly theatrical,’ so he’s learned to be careful with his words and actions when the team is involved. He has to make an actual effort now. Whatever fear he inspired in those around him dissipated in high school and for the life of him, Kiyoomi can’t figure out how to get it back. He’s not even the youngest, but the Black Jackals treat him like an endearing younger brother, and even when it is his turn to get made fun of for something, it’s gentle.
Hinata doesn’t get the same courtesy.
“What the fuck is that!” Inunaki demands. Everyone gathers around him but Kiyoomi prefers to watch from afar, feigning disinterest — not that it’s fooling anybody. They know he lives for the drama just like the rest of them.
“Ya know damn well what that is,” Atsumu guffaws. He’s half-dressed, having clearly abandoned blow-drying his hair to prod at Hinata, who swats him away like a mosquito. Atsumu doesn’t let it discourage him, though, and Kiyoomi’s eyes follow Atsumu’s finger to where it pokes Hinata’s neck. “Who gave ya a hickey this time, Sho-kun?”
“Five thousand yen on Kageyama,” Bokuto shouts, voice echoing throughout the room. He joins Atsumu in poking at Hinata, obstructing him from view.
“No, no,” Tomas interrupts. “The Adlers are in Tokyo this week, so it can’t be him.”
Inunaki curses under his breath. “Damn, that eliminates Hoshiumi too, and that was my guess.”
“What about the little blonde girl that sometimes comes around?” Barnes wonders. “She always blushes around Hinata.”
“No, she’s a lesbian,” Kiyoomi calls. He likes Yachi. She’s kind and very conspicuously gay.
They all mutter in agreement, remembering. Kiyoomi finally closes his own locker and turns towards the group. Hinata is in the middle of the pack, redder than his hair and trying to hide his neck. Atsumu and Bokuto each pull on one of his hands and he yelps in protest but ultimately gives in.
And Jesus — somebody mauled Hinata’s neck. Kiyoomi has never seen a hickey that...aggressive. It’s a perfect mixture of red and purple hues, encompassing the entire left side of Hinata’s neck. Whoever left it clearly put a lot of work into it.
“It was none of you, right?” Meian demands, already agitated. Kiyoomi sees Meian as a professional chaperone who plays volleyball on the side. However much he makes to deal with the team’s endless stream of shenanigans, it’s not enough.
Everyone lets out a chorus of denial and Meian lets out a sigh of relief that proves it was a very real worry.
“Thank God,” Inunaki says. “So, who was it? Wait, weren’t you at Onigiri Miya last night?”
The smile drops right off of Atsumu’s face, and his eyes widen. “What? Fuck, ya didn’t make out with my brother again, did ya? I swear to God, I told him to stop hookin’ up with my teammates.”
“No!” Hinata finally finds his voice again. “That was one time and we were drunk. Let it go! It wasn’t anyone we know. I’m trying to stop doing that,” he grumbles.
“Because you’re running out of people?” Inunaki taunts. Hinata huffs, yanking his hands away from his assailants to zip his jacket up to his neck, making it impossible for Kiyoomi to continue staring, which, admittedly, he had been. It’s rude to stare, but a lot of things Kiyoomi does can be considered rude and nobody seems bothered by it here. He doesn’t mean to, but the hickey is just — insane. It blooms over Hinata’s skin, dark enough to contrast beautifully even on Hinata’s tanned skin.
It’s not that evidence of his teammates’ sexual exploits is completely unusual; sex itself is obviously a common topic. They’re men in a locker room — it comes with the territory — but it’s rare for one of them to come in looking like they’ve been attacked by a vampire. Kiyoomi hasn’t seen any of them with a hickey, and, now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t seen anybody with a hickey up close. It’s sort of fascinating — and pretty, his brain reminds him for the fourth time.
Kiyoomi isn’t a prude. Actually, it’s the opposite. Kiyoomi likes sex, but there are qualifiers. He can’t just stroll down to a club or bar whenever he feels the need to get off. The thought alone makes his stomach turn. Sex is good when it’s convenient and comfortable. His floormate his freshman year of college? Safe. Easy. His calculus tutor? Sure, why not? He likes sex, but he’s never been a fan of intimacy, so things stayed in the realm of business. It was enough of an ordeal to find someone he liked enough to kiss, much less suck on his neck like a leech.
Now, though, he wonders. What would he look like, marked up like that? Kiyoomi is significantly paler than Hinata, so the bruises would be much more pronounced. They’d stain his skin purple, turning him into a piece of art. It would be really, really hot. And, despite his previous comparison to leeches, Kiyoomi suddenly finds himself wanting it. Desperately. So desperately, in fact, that he can feel himself getting hard just at the thought of it.
Unfortunately, this is a bad time to have that realization. Think of the worst place in the universe to pop a boner — at church, or a funeral — and multiply that by ten levels of mortification. That’s the MSBY Black Jackals locker room. Still, the world continues to spin on its axis and his teammates continue the raucous banter that’s now so familiar, so Kiyoomi can safely assume he hasn’t been found out yet.
Currently, Hinata is snapping at Atsumu, threatening to bite his fingers off if he doesn’t stop trying to drag his zipper down, and Kiyoomi takes his opportunity to sneak out. He’s almost convinced he’s going to make a clean getaway, but he should know it’s never that easy. A familiar hand clamps down on his shoulder and spins him around.
“Omi!” Atsumu’s tone is scolding and Kiyoomi frowns, shaking him off. “Where d’ya think you’re goin’? Ya said we’d get boba after practice today.”
Oh. Yeah, he did.
Atsumu doesn’t take it personally. He knows Kiyoomi’s nature. They’re best friends, though Kiyoomi tries to avoid saying it out loud. Never in a thousand years did Kiyoomi think his best friend would be Miya Atsumu, the boy who Kiyoomi once witnessed eat a sandwich off the floor when they were sixteen. He told Motoya at the time that he suspected Atsumu was raised by wolves, and Motoya snorted, telling him maybe Atsumu would surprise him one day. Kiyoomi didn’t think so, then.
But apparently getting older will change the very foundation of your core beliefs.
“It’s okay, I’ll forgive ya for forgettin’ if ya pay,” Atsumu sings. “Why were ya in such a hurry, though? Your hair is still wet. It’s gonna dry funny.”
Atsumu lifts his hand as if to ruffle it and Kiyoomi side-steps away. “I’ll push you into traffic if you do that.” He shakes his head, righting any stray curls. It is dry, Atsumu is just constantly full of shit. “I didn’t want to participate in tormenting Hinata.”
“Tormentin’ Hinata is one of your favorite pastimes, ya liar. Remember when ya told him your wrists were so bendy because you’re part cyborg, and ya can take ‘em off if ya want?”
Kiyoomi smiles to himself at the memory. That was their first week of practice. Hinata had taken him so seriously that he told Meian, who later scolded Kiyoomi for it, haltingly and without much heat, because, ‘I didn’t think you’d be one of the troublemakers’.
“Sure, but this is juvenile,” Kiyoomi sighs, walking out of the way of Atsumu’s jostling. Atsumu swings his arms too much when he walks and bumps into everything and everyone in sight. “We’re not in high school.”
Atsumu snorts. “I dunno what you got into in high school, Omi, but I wasn’t gettin’ myself covered in hickeys when I was sixteen. I would’ve came in my pants just from someone puttin’ their mouth on my neck.”
“You don’t do that now?” Kiyoomi asks, inflectionless. Atsumu shoves into him on purpose that time. “Anyway, I didn’t get into anything in high school,” Kiyoomi adds, not thinking his words over. “I’ve never had a hickey, actually.”
Atsumu nearly stops walking, but recovers quickly, speeding up his steps to stay in line with Kiyoomi. He turns to him, incredulous. “Really?”
Kiyoomi side-eyes him. “Yes. You’re really shocked by that? It’s me.”
Atsumu hums, considering. He must remember the three times he was required to wash his hands before entering Kiyoomi’s apartment for the first time because he nods. “Guess that does make sense. I figured if ya had any, they just weren’t visible. You’re smart about stuff like that.”
“Unlike Hinata,” Kiyoomi adds. “No, I’d never...thought about them before.”
“Eh, I think Sho’s a bit of an exhibitionist about it,” Atsumu says, shrugging. He opens his mouth, like he may fire off another question, but instead he shifts the conversation entirely, going back to volleyball. When they first started having conversations that were more than just insults and taunts, Kiyoomi would get whiplash from Atsumu’s constant subject changes. He’s used to it now — they can cover three to five topics in a span of twenty minutes and never seem to get bored. Kiyoomi doesn’t like to talk that much, but it’s easy with Atsumu.
Any thoughts of hickeys leave his mind for the time being.
Atsumu orders them their boba and they head back to Kiyoomi’s apartment. It’s a routine at this point — Atsumu is over at least twice a week, if not more, but his presence isn’t unwelcome. Kiyoomi is a homebody and an introvert, so he didn’t expect much when Atsumu first invited himself over (by literally showing up at Kiyoomi’s door with ramen from Kiyoomi’s favorite restaurant, as if Kiyoomi could say no to that). But spending time with Atsumu didn’t feel like a chore. He wasn’t left feeling drained afterward; it was comfortable.
And he knows how to behave himself, unlike some of his teammates. Bokuto has yet to be unbanned from stepping past the entryway.
Atsumu toes his shoes off in said entryway, squirts sanitizer into his hands, and then beelines straight to the couch, already reaching for the remote. “Okay, I know we should be star athletes and watch footage from EJP’s most recent game, but what if we watched that new Netflix crime documentary instead?”
“You know the answer to that,” replies Kiyoomi, and Atsumu grins, Netflix already loading on the screen. They settle in, on opposite sides of the couch, and get all of four minutes into the series Atsumu chose for them before he starts talking.
‘So, Omi’ is a dangerous beginning to a sentence. It always signals trouble, usually in the form of a stupid question that will catapult them into hours of debate. This will involve aggressive searching on Kiyoomi’s phone to prove a point and a monetary bet if it gets super intense. They’ve been down this road hundreds of times and Kiyoomi is content to indulge Atsumu in his nonsense if only because it gives him the chance to prove him wrong. “The whole hickey thing…”
Kiyoomi blinks, processing. “Why bring that up again?”
Atsumu shrugs, pointedly refusing to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes, which is strange. Atsumu is shameless on every topic, this shouldn’t be any different. “In the locker room, ya seemed...kinda bothered by it.”
“Bothered,” Kiyoomi repeats. “How so?”
He was bothered, but not in the way that Atsumu could possibly be thinking. Atsumu knows him well, but Kiyoomi is good at hiding his emotions. There’s no way Atsumu or anyone could read Kiyoomi’s fascination with the hickey, the way he was itching to have his own neck marked up with striking blotches of color.
“I dunno.” Atsumu drags out the word, now staring directly at the ceiling. “Like, uncomfortable.”
“You think it made me uncomfortable, and yet you’re bringing it up right now,” Kiyoomi says. “That’s on brand.”
“Hey,” Atsumu protests, but it’s weak. He’s not rising to Kiyoomi’s bait today. “Nah, I just — wanted to make sure everythin’ was cool. I could tell them to lay off all the teasin’ if that kinda stuff ain’t your preferred conversation. Can’t have my best spiker messin’ up because of some locker room talk.”
Kiyoomi considers this, and he’s touched, in that way only Atsumu can bring on. Atsumu does small things like that — caters to people. He brings melatonin with him to away games because Bokuto needs them to sleep; he responds to every single negative Onigiri Miya review with a separate profile; he makes sure Kiyoomi is anxiety-free in any situation where otherwise could be the case.
Kiyoomi tries not to feel smaller emotions, but he does appreciate it. More than Atsumu knows.
“That’s not what it is,” Kiyoomi answers. He has a solid friendship with Atsumu — one where neither holds back. Where Kiyoomi used to be able to keep thoughts to himself, Atsumu draws them out with some extraordinary magnetism. It’s like contagious word vomit — he tells Kiyoomi every single thought that enters his brain, and so Kiyoomi is compelled to do the same. It only took weeks for Kiyoomi to feel as if could ace a test on Atsumu’s whole personality.
“What was it then?”
Kiyoomi already knows he’ll tell him. “I was thinking that I wanted one. A hickey.”
Atsumu stares at him. In the background, the narrator is detailing a gruesome triple-homicide, but he may as well be speaking in gibberish for how little they’re paying him attention. Atsumu opens his mouth, expression bemused.
Kiyoomi keeps eye contact. He isn’t bashful, ever. Kiyoomi doesn’t get shy, but shockingly, Atsumu does. He’s brazen on any given day, but Kiyoomi has seen him get flustered too many times to count. It’s a difference from the arrogant, carefree persona he wears as his daily face.
“Do ya?” Atsumu manages.
“Yeah.” Kiyoomi stretches back, abandoning even looking at the screen. “I don’t want a stranger to get their spit all over me, though.”
He really barely tolerates kissing. People are sloppy and Kiyoomi can’t deal with it. The thought is only appealing if he could find someone he trusts, who knows him well enough to make sure he’s comfortable. If he had someone like that, then, well...
“But you could do it.”
Atsumu chokes on something invisible, sending himself into a coughing fit. Kiyoomi gives him a moment before he prepares to save his life, and Atsumu collects himself. Red-faced and teary-eyed, he croaks out, “Pardon?”
“Don’t you like using your mouth?” Kiyoomi continues. “You’re always chewing on something, so I’m assuming you’d be good at this.”
“I — that’s, uh. Suckin’ on someone’s neck is different from a lollipop, or chewin’ on a hoodie string,” Atsumu stammers out.
“It was just a suggestion,” Kiyoomi promises. He’s not bothered by it. It’s not like he’s trying to solicit Atsumu for sex, just an experience, but if Atsumu doesn’t want to, that’s no big deal. “I can find someone else.”
“No, no, wait,” Atsumu blurts. “Don’t find someone else! I mean — ya don’t like strangers.”
“I don’t,” Kiyoomi agrees. “But I’m not going to force you to do it.”
“I will,” Atsumu says. “I wanna. Help ya. I wanna help ya. That’s what friends are for, right?”
Atsumu is nervous. Kiyoomi has seen this phenomenon a handful of times — at training camp, when they were introduced to the National Team’s coach; in the locker room before an important game; sitting on Kiyoomi’s couch, waiting for a call from his brother. It’s rare, but it’s happened enough times for Kiyoomi to know the signs, and he wonders why now.
It’s not a secret that Atsumu likes to ‘get his dick wet’ as he so eloquently puts it. That’s why Kiyoomi figured he’d ask him. If Atsumu does this all the time, then it shouldn’t be a problem to him, but Kiyoomi doesn’t want to push him into something he’s not interested in.
“Are you sure?” Kiyoomi prompts. “You really don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Said I want to, Omi,” he mutters, cheeks coloring just slightly. “Ya know the team is gonna ask about it, though. They’re a buncha jackasses about stuff like this.”
“Ourselves included,” Kiyoomi points out. “Put them somewhere no one will see, then.”
Atsumu’s eyes widen and the redness makes its way to his chest, peeking out from his tank top. Atsumu always blushes with his whole body, Kiyoomi has noticed. “Ya know what you’re askin’ for, right?”
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi answers coolly. “I trust you.”
And he does. There are few people in the world Kiyoomi trusts as much as Atsumu. He’s reliable, follows through with what he says he’ll do, and has never once let Kiyoomi down. When he jumps into the air, Kiyoomi knows Atsumu will be there to get him the ball. When they’re off the court, Atsumu is always by his side.
“Okay,” Atsumu mumbles, more to himself. “Okay,” he repeats louder. “Where d’ya want them then?”
“Where’s the easiest place to put them?”
“Uh, well, few places,” he replies. He points to his own chest, letting his fingers trail down over his loose shirt. “‘Round here works, but it’s best on soft spots, like your thighs. That’s a popular area.”
Ah, Kiyoomi didn’t really consider the implications of asking Miya to leave his neck untouched. They’re either taking his shirt off or his pants. There’s a protocol to doing this with a friend, he’s sure, and it most likely includes leaving his pants on.
So, to answer Atsumu, Kiyoomi lifts his shirt over his head. They’ve been shirtless together countless times, so it’s not a big thing, but Kiyoomi tracks Atsumu’s eyes as they trace over his body. Atsumu is observant, but there’s a barely-contained hunger in his gaze now, and Kiyoomi isn’t sure what to do with it.
It’s gone a second later and Kiyoomi isn’t convinced it wasn’t just a trick of the light. Atsumu is careful as he approaches, closing the distance between them. “How many d’ya want, Omi?” he asks, voice soft.
Kiyoomi swallows. Suddenly, he’s wondering if this was the right idea at all. Atsumu is different like this. All traces of his usual goofy, arrogant attitude are gone, leaving him respectful and...almost reverent. He reaches out a hand and brushes over Kiyoomi’s chest. “Could give ya a few here.”
“That’s fine,” Kiyoomi answers, stiffer than he’d meant to be. “And I’ll take as many as you want to give me.”
If Atsumu wasn’t so close, Kiyoomi would miss the tiny intake of breath, but he hears it in high-definition. Atsumu doesn’t speak anymore, the air changes. It’s heavier now, filled with electricity. Atsumu trails his hand down to Kiyoomi’s hip and lets it rest there. Kiyoomi spreads his legs automatically, making room for Atsumu, and he quickly slots himself into the open space.
“If ya don’t like it, hit me or somethin’,” Atsumu says. “Alright?”
“I have to hit you?” Kiyoomi quirks an eyebrow. “I can’t just ask you to stop?”
“Might be hard to hear ya once I get into it,” Atsumu admits and something flutters in Kiyoomi’s stomach at the words. “You were right — I do like givin’ hickeys.”
He doesn’t know Atsumu like this — this is new territory, dangerous, unexplored territory, but Kiyoomi doesn’t feel the need to run, like he has with past hook-ups. Instead, he’s drawn closer, his own breaths denser, his heart speeding up.
He makes a mental note to calm down, because this is just...a thing. Atsumu is doing him a favor, that’s all.
“Alright.” Kiyoomi nods. “Go on, then.”
Atsumu doesn’t hesitate anymore. The hand at Kiyoomi’s hip squeezes, a twitch, as if unconscious, and then Atsumu presses his lips to Kiyoomi’s chest. He almost jumps at the sensation, but stops himself. His hands grip the couch as Atsumu peppers soft kisses around Kiyoomi’s pec, hardly lifting his lips. It feels — ah. Kiyoomi doesn’t know if he has the vocabulary to describe how it feels. His body wants to react just from the barely-there pressure of Atsumu’s mouth and he has to reign himself in so he doesn’t press himself further against Atsumu.
Atsumu doesn’t speak as he works. He latches onto a spot right under Kiyoomi’s nipple and nips at it. A sharp, instant pain shocks Kiyoomi and he responds without meaning to — opening his mouth to let out a whimper.
Atsumu hums, licking over the bite, before engulfing it entirely with his mouth and sucking.
“God,” Kiyoomi hisses on reflex. He didn’t think he was this sensitive. He’s never been noisy in bed, but Atsumu is drawing sounds out of him without his explicit permission. His legs ache to close around Atsumu’s waist, but he fights against his instincts. This is not like that. This is just an experiment, something to sate Kiyoomi’s curiosity.
It’s mind-numbing, though — dizzying, how Atsumu’s mouth feels against him. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and lets the sensation wash over him.
He opens them when Atsumu pulls off, running his tongue over the area one more time, before admiring his handiwork. Kiyoomi glances down and his entire stomach free-falls at the sight.
The mark is vibrant against his skin, blooming black and purple. It’s stunning in the way it contrasts with Kiyoomi’s pale skin, an unmistakable brand. It feels like a piece of art painted directly onto his body. His eyes fall to Atsumu after. It's a reflex, and a mistake.
If he thought he could explain Atsumu’s evident hunger away as his imagination earlier, that excuse is gone now. Atsumu’s eyes are lidded, lust-filled — starving. He watches Kiyoomi through a clear haze and it goes straight to Kiyoomi’s groin.
“D’ya like it?” Atsumu whispers.
“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathes.
“Want another one?”
“‘Kay.” Atsumu goes back down, this time giving Kiyoomi’s other nipple consideration. His hand stays firm on his hip, fingers caressing lightly through the fabric — unconscious, if anything, but it sets Kiyoomi alight with a fire that threatens to quickly lose control. Atsumu’s movements started off measured, but now he lavishes him with attention, mouth moving hastily and skilled over his untouched skin, decorating him with bruises.
He doesn’t stop at two, and Kiyoomi makes no effort to call him back to reality. He doesn’t think he has the mental capacity to. Atsumu sucks a third, fourth and fifth hickey into his chest, trailing lower, ghosting lips over his abdomen.
“This okay?” Atsumu asks, bringing his free hand down over Kiyoomi’s stomach. He tenses at the touch, all of his muscles clenching with the effort of keeping himself together. This has gone way too far. They passed the point of ‘helping a friend out’ with the first hickey, but Kiyoomi doesn’t want to stop, so he nods, and Atsumu seals his lips over skin once more.
Kiyoomi groans again, this time unable to muffle it in the slightest, and Atsumu’s grip on his hip turns brutal. He moves his other hand to rest on Kiyoomi’s thigh, and it becomes borderline impossible to keep his legs still. Atsumu is relentless, but Kiyoomi knew that. Atsumu takes and he takes and he takes whatever he wants, but he’s generous in what he gives back.
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whines — and it’s just that; a whine, a plea for something. To continue or to stop, whatever decision he makes in this split second is going to set the tone for the rest of their relationship. Kiyoomi can either spiral down further, or they can escape this relatively unscathed, still safe in the belief that this is something acceptable for friends, that this is just experimentation.
Atsumu sinks his teeth into the soft skin right above the waistband of Kiyoomi’s shorts, and he gasps. Actually, no — things can never be normal after this.
“More,” he demands, half on the side of incoherence. Atsumu’s lips are making him faint, and the budding discoloration that decorates his chest is heightening his desire. Atsumu is turning him into his canvas and Kiyoomi needs to give him more space to work with.
“Yeah?” Atsumu asks. His expression is stony, eyes wild with something like craving. “I’m runnin’ out of room, Omi.” The words drip with honey, sweet and intoxicating, and Kiyoomi bites back another groan at the tone of his voice alone.
“On my thighs,” he manages. Kiyoomi wiggles, shifting his hips up, giving Atsumu access. Atsumu stares, mouth hanging slightly open — awed. He’s looking at Kiyoomi like he’s a deity, something to worship. They’ve long since passed the point of no return; there’s no use in pretending this is just for show.
“Fuck, Omi,” Atsumu rumbles, and he doesn’t wait to be told twice. He yanks down Kiyoomi’s shorts, pooling them at his ankles. Kiyoomi kicks them off entirely and Atsumu dives in, already slotting his mouth over the sensitive skin of his thighs.
Atsumu devours him, breaths coming out as heavy, desperate gasps of air. He leaves searing kisses all over Kiyoomi, lips traveling over every inch of untouched space, making it his.
His hands move too. No longer confined to one spot, he trails them over Kiyoomi’s chest, rubbing over the fresh marks, pinching his nipples, and Kiyoomi gives up entirely on trying to hold back. He moans, unabashed, and Atsumu’s mouth seems to grow hotter, inching closer and closer to where Kiyoomi’s erection is straining in his boxers. He’s aching for it, and his hips twitch, catching Atsumu’s eye.
“Do ya want this?” he rasps. His voice is unsteady. “Fuck, please say ya want this.”
“I want it,” Kiyoomi croaks, adrenaline shooting through him. “I want anything you’ll give me, please, Atsumu.”
“Jesus Christ,” Atsumu whines, and he mouths over Kiyoomi’s bulge, wetting the fabric with his tongue. It’s obscene — it’s delicious, and Kiyoomi is writhing for it. His hands shoot out and land in Atsumu’s hair, tangling up in blonde strands, immediately pulling him closer. “Wanna cover ya in hickeys,” he mutters, licking another stripe over Kiyoomi’s clothed cock that leaves him shivering. “I wanna see ‘em in the locker room and know I gave ‘em to ya.”
“Please,” Kiyoomi repeats, a whimper. He’s out of his mind, driven to insanity with lust, and so he’ll beg. “Give them to me everywhere.”
“Of course, baby.” Atsumu lifts his head and smiles briefly, before sinking back down and tasting Kiyoomi once more. His teeth graze the skin, stinging, and Atsumu sucks over the rising welt in apology.
Kiyoomi is intoxicated. He didn’t know anything could feel this good, doesn’t know if anything ever will again. Sex is one thing — a means to an end, a temporary high, a way to relieve stress, but this? This is euphoric. Kiyoomi is drowning in desire, all of his insides twisting and tightening at the sensations given to him by Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi wants more than he ever has wanted anything before, needs everything Atsumu is willing to give him.
“Take them off,” he demands. He’s practically panting, so turned on that it’s borderline painful.
“I won’t be able to control myself if I do, Omi,” Atsumu promises, words sweet and breathy. “I already — fuck, I wanna eat ya up. I wanna swallow your pretty cock.”
Fuck, he’s filthy. Add to the list of things he didn’t think he enjoyed — dirty talk. Atsumu’s words send jolts of electricity through him, leaving him exposed like a livewire. He bucks up, body working on its own, shoving his crotch up towards Atsumu’s half-opened mouth.
“Do it,” Kiyoomi tells him, and Atsumu’s eyes flash wild before he obeys, dragging Kiyoomi’s boxers down to join his discarded pants. His cock springs free, achingly hard and leaking, and Atsumu admires it like it’s a piece in a museum. Atsumu falls off the couch, sinks to his knees, and peppers more kisses on Kiyoomi’s thighs. He adds another hickey, and another — Kiyoomi has lost count of how many he’s covered in, but they adorn him like jewelry. He’ll see them in the mirror and think of this, of Atsumu. He’ll remember in high-definition the way Atsumu’s fingers dug into his hips as his mouth claimed him, over and over.
“Can’t believe I get ya like this,” Atsumu murmurs under his breath and Kiyoomi has to strain to hear the words. They’re mumbled like a prayer, a whispered incantation. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, all spread out for me.”
Kiyoomi feels tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. Atsumu is keeping his pace languid, taking Kiyoomi apart as slow as he can, a special kind of torment. Kiyoomi feels like he’s being roasted above flames and he can’t decide if he likes the warmth or if he’s burning.
Atsumu sucks another mark into his hip bone and runs his tongue over it. Kiyoomi’s vision goes blurrier.
“Atsumu,” he grunts. “You’re teasing.”
“Can ya blame me, Omi?” he replies. “You’re all mine right now. I gotta take advantage. But I’ll give ya what ya want, sweetheart.”
The pet names are enough to make him short-circuit on their own, but then Atsumu gives a chaste kiss to the head of Kiyoomi’s cock and he nearly blacks out on the spot. Atsumu gives him no time to adjust. One hand wraps itself around Kiyoomi as he places the other on the bulge in his own pants, pressing down to relieve what Kiyoomi knows is a monumental pressure. Kiyoomi wants to tell him to undress, to level the playing field, but all known language leaves his brain in a rush when Atsumu engulfs Kiyoomi’s cock with plush lips and sucks.
Kiyoomi nearly kicks his legs but Atsumu holds them still as he hollows out his cheeks and takes Kiyoomi down further. He moans around his length, swallowing just like he promised, and Kiyoomi sees white spots. Atsumu stays true to his word — he devours him, leaving Kiyoomi panting and pleading and yanking on Atsumu’s hair like a lifeline. He doesn’t want to come — not yet, not without Atsumu following him down, so he pulls particularly hard, lifting Atsumu off of his cock.
Just the vision alone almost sends him over the edge. Atsumu’s chest is heaving. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are shiny and red. He looks a little crazed, and he ducks his head back down as if to defy Kiyoomi, like he can’t bear to stop.
“Don’t,” Kiyoomi gasps. “I don’t want to — not yet. Take your clothes off.”
Atsumu blinks once before shucking his shirt over his head. His pants and boxers come next, abandoned in one swift movement, and before he can fall back to his knees, Kiyoomi drags Atsumu up onto the couch, pulling his body over Kiyoomi’s. Their cocks brush together and Atsumu keens. Kiyoomi surges forward and steals the noise from his lips.
Atsumu kisses like he’s trying to take the breath directly from Kiyoomi’s lungs, and Kiyoomi fights to keep it from devolving into something sloppy. He’s powerless to it, though, unable to even iron out his thoughts when Atsumu is rutting against him like that, their erections gliding together. Kiyoomi doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all. Atsumu could lick his face right now and it would only serve to make him hotter for him. He would kiss Atsumu all day, whether it be chaste pecks or a clash of teeth and tongue. His nails dig into Atsumu’s bare back, then travel down to his ass. When he squeezes, Atsumu thrusts against him, and the friction leaves him that much closer to spiraling down.
Atsumu must feel it too, because he shoves his face into the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck and sucks, while his hand snakes down between them to wrap around both of their cocks. He pumps them together, pulling out debauched, mortifying moans from Kiyoomi’s lips. It spurs Atsumu on, and his hand moves faster, frantic, both of them in a haste to relieve the pressure building between them.
Kiyoomi feels himself tipping over the edge, and then Atsumu sinks his teeth into Kiyoomi’s neck, and his vision goes white. He comes into Atsumu’s hands, entire body trembling with the pleasure of it all.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears Atsumu curse under his breath, and then he’s coming too. They struggle to catch their breath through the aftershocks, staring at each other as their chests heave. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what comes next — has no prior experience with whatever it is that just happened, but when Atsumu leans in once more to press a soft kiss to Kiyoomi’s neck, he feels a wave of calm wash over him.
Atsumu. Safe, comfortable Atsumu. Kiyoomi nudges his head with his nose, and Atsumu gazes up at him.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi offers, because that’s about all his brain can come up with at the moment.
“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees. He pauses, and then, in true Atsumu fashion, blurts out whatever is on his mind. “Omi, I’m so into ya. I probably shouldn’t say that, but fuck it, that was one of the best orgasms of my life and I know it’s ‘cause I’ve liked ya forever.”
“You have?” Kiyoomi manages, and it feels like his breath leaves him for an entirely new reason.
Atsumu inclines his head, a small nod to match the smile on his face. Nervous, again. “It’s okay if ya don’t like me back, Omi. No pressure, but I had to tell ya, and I really hope that doesn’t make things weird, ‘cause — ”
Kiyoomi silences him with a small kiss to his cheek, tender and lingering. Atsumu freezes, mouth still open in the ghost of a sentence Kiyoomi will not let him finish. “You know, I hate kissing most of the time,” he says.
“But — ya just kissed me, a lot.”
“Yes. Exactly.” It’s a truth that Kiyoomi didn’t realize himself, but the evidence is pretty damning at this point. He wouldn’t have done any of the things he just did with somebody he didn’t explicitly care for and trust. Atsumu is his best friend — to love him is natural. “I did.”
“Ya did,” Atsumu mimics, faint.
“Anyway, we’re going to have to tell the team something when they ask about this.” He glances down at his neck, to where his biggest hickey is on display for everyone to see. It’s a beacon that no amount of cover-up will hide. “Telling them we’re dating is easier.”
Atsumu’s awed expression gives way to a grin, transforming his face from unsure to glowing, bright enough to blind. “Oh,” he says. “Okay, yeah. Yeah, we can tell ‘em that.”
The next day, Kiyoomi walks out of the showers in only a towel, and it takes approximately fifteen seconds for the carnage to begin.
“Sakusa!” Inunaki gasps like he’s been shot. “Are those all hickeys?!”
“Oh my God,” Hinata squeaks, pointing. “You all made fun of me for hours in the group chat over one! Omi-san has, like, at least thirty!”
"Somebody count," Tomas calls.
“Holy shit.” Meian seems like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You always surprise me. You must have a wild one.”
“Who did this to you?!” Bokuto demands.
Kiyoomi waits a moment, letting the tension build-up, because he can appreciate the drama. When he’s sure the Black Jackals are ready to burst, he says, “Atsumu did.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence in which the team processes what he said. Next to him, Atsumu stiffens in anticipation. They discussed this, and Atsumu volunteered to be the one to tell, but nothing can adequately prepare for the onslaught of locker room gossip.
“Our Atsumu? Miya Atsumu?”
“You let Miya put his mouth on you?”
Their voices overlap, frantic, and Atsumu sighs, resigned to his fate. He’s used to being on the receiving end of this, and he’ll sacrifice himself for Kiyoomi — that’s what boyfriends are for, after all.