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Kiyoomi’s on Atsumu the second they finally get to the locker room. Between the awards ceremony, post-game interviews, and all the congratulations everyone's been trying to lay on them for finally winning the V-League, Kiyoomi's been keyed up for hours. Maybe even months.
He hasn't even had the chance to get out of uniform, far too busy getting talked at by what feels like hundreds of people, avoiding their handshakes, and wishing he could just leave.
"MVP, Kiyoomi! It's a big deal!" God knows how many people have said that to him by now, demanded he hold up the placard and take pictures, but the real prize is right here, in front of him, boxed in against the wall by his arms, flushed pink from the attention.
"Jeeze, Omi, you've got no patience, huh?" Atsumu asks, but he shivers anyway as Kiyoomi licks a stripe up his neck. "Right in front of the whole team? Really?"
Kiyoomi's been plenty patient. He's been ravenous the whole postseason, fighting for every point, every save, every set. Being the most valuable player on the court as often as possible, earning Atsumu's warm praise and Bokuto's half-jealous, half-congratulatory high fives.
"I'm ready for my reward, Atsumu," he says, breath ghosting over the slick spot on his neck, and the whole room goes quiet like they've been waiting for this.
At the beginning of the season, Atsumu took one look at the standings and said "we've gotta be better than we've ever been to win."
Those sports-y platitudes never really appealed to Kiyoomi, but he even found himself agreeing. The Hornets, of all teams, seemed unbeatable, and their wins against them during the regular season came down to a coin toss.
“What do you propose then, Miya, to help us get better?” There wasn’t much additional training that could happen at this stage; everyone was worn out and tired from a long season, and it would take all their strength just to make it through to the finals.
Atsumu smiled, half-lidded, which should have raised all the alarm bells before his words did. “All of ya have to play your best out there, okay? After all, winner gets my virginity.” Atsumu was out the door before the words even registered, heading to their massage team for stretches.
Kiyoomi blinked, and then the room erupted into noise.
The thing is—
The thing was—
Atsumu wasn’t quiet about being a virgin. “It ain’t that I’m proud of it,” he’d explained once when Wakatoshi — drunk on soju after another loss against Argentina — asked him about it, “but I’m not ashamed, either. I just haven’t found a reason to have sex yet.” He shrugged, sipped his highball, and that would’ve been the end of it if Wakatoshi’s drunk brain hadn’t struck with all the delicacy of a blunt ax.
“Don’t you think sex would be fun, Atsumu? It is more enjoyable with another person,” he said, and Kiyoomi downed the nearest drink — Suna’s Lemon Drop, horrific — because he didn’t want to think about his friend having sex.
Instead of blushing like, well, like a virgin, Atsumu leaned across the table at Wakatoshi, stared him down until the alcohol flush in his cheeks turned a burnished pink, and leered at him. “I think my right hand is plenty enjoyable on its own,” he winked. “But let me know if ya think your left could do better, big guy.”
Then he patted his chest and walked off to get Suna another disgusting shot. He's an enabler of the absolute worst kind.
Kiyoomi blinked, and Wakatoshi’s mouth hanged open. “You’re going to catch flies,” he said.
“I will call the health department if there are flies on the premises.” Wakatoshi watched Atsumu walk away with something like consideration in his eyes, and right then and there Kiyoomi realized he would need to get drunker to survive the night.
Afterwards, Atsumu got more open about his virginity to the rest of the JNT, and MSBY too. He was shameless the way people with nothing to hide are shameless. Stating it matter of factly, waving off offers to ‘divest’ him of it, and — most ludicrously — having the loudest wank sessions Kiyoomi’s ever had the pleasure of hearing.
And boy, was it pleasurable.
He’d fuck himself anywhere he could: the dorms, their hotel rooms on the road, even the showers after practice. Always loud enough so anyone walking by could hear his breathy little moans, the whimpers, the quiet sobs as orgasm dragged nearer and nearer. He liked to really take his time, and Kiyoomi could only imagine how he spent it. Their teammates, the ones who liked to listen, would always stand near his door, update the groupchat about Miya’s wanking schedule with a secret code, and press their ears to the door, wondering if he’d utter someone's name. Their name.
He never did, but they could imagine it, knowing what he sounded like when he grunted at them on the court.
Sometimes, if you were lucky, he left a door cracked open or the shower curtain drawn a little less tight. An invitation to view and nothing more, but one they took advantage of. Little glimpses of Atsumu, water running down his broad back, tight ass tensing as he cums, hand wrapped around his cock or his legs spread wide while he reaches deep into himself, pumping a toy inside.
Kiyoomi’s partaken; nearly everyone on the team has, and nearly everyone on the team has fought to be Atsumu’s road roomie until he figured out what was going on and stopped masturbating in the shower. “No private shows!” he teased, to everyone’s disappointment.
All this to say: over the course of several years, Atsumu tricked them into a virginity kink, and now he’s finally making it pay off.
Why now? “I wanna win!” and a wink while he chugged his water bottle, throat working hard leaving all their mouths dry.
When can the winner… you know? “Whenever he wants,” Atsumu shrugged, “I’m not picky about it.” Leaving all their imaginations running wild.
What if none of us are the MVP? Atsumu stared at them for a long moment, and for a second Kiyoomi assumed he’d say something patronizing like ‘don’t think like that, I’m sure you’ll win!’ when Atsumu finally replied, dark and intent and faraway look on his face, “I guess I’ll see if he wants to fuck me then, so ya better not lose.”
Everyone worked hard to win; Kiyoomi spent hours studying game tape, Hinata heckled Atsumu into helping them make their quick sets even more unpredictable, and Bokuto kept doing these stretches to keep his flexibility at an all time high.
And in the end—
Kiyoomi was triumphant. And only the Jackals knew why he looked so delighted after the game.
“You said anywhere I wanted,” Kiyoomi continues while Atsumu’s quiet, his hand resting just above the hem of his shorts, slid under his shirt to touch bare skin, warm and burning, “and I want it now, Atsumu.” Maybe he’s a little desperate; maybe he’s been waiting for this for months, years, grasping at the little gifts Atsumu gives them, his whines and the sight of his body twisted in the sheets, but never his touch. Never his taste. Never his body.
“Impatient,” Atsumu chides.
“I’ve been working hard, waiting for you.” Fingers digging into his body, his other hand sliding up to cup his head. Pressed against the wall, there’s no way for Atsum to escape, to run. “And don’t you like an audience?” Kiyoomi draws over the curve of his ear with a finger, and revels in the shiver that runs through Atsumu’s body.
He might be a confident virgin, but he’s still a virgin; these kinds of touches are new to him, and if he hadn’t talked about it — suffered Meian’s insistent third degree about how far he’s gone, dealt with Inunaki’s baseball metaphors that none of them understood — then Kiyoomi’s proof would be in how honest Atsumu’s body is. It reaches for him even now, back arching so he can press into Kiyoomi’s chest, cock starting to chub up in his soft shorts.
“I like it, Omi,” he says, and it draws a small laugh from their team, otherwise waiting with bated breaths to see what’s going to happen, “but I don’t think you do, do you? You’re a pretty private guy.” He rests his hand on the small of Kiyoomi’s back and he feels it like a brand, leans into Kiyoomi’s touch.”You don’t have to do anything you wanna do, no matter how much you think I’ll like it.”
There’s something in his tone, a little hesitant, that gives Kiyoomi pause.
He’s thought about this. For the long, aching weeks of the postseason, neck and neck with Bokuto and Ushijima in points scored, thinking about what he’d do when he finally had Atsumu in his grasp had lulled hm to sleep at night and made him wake up with damp boxers like he was a teenager again. So many possibilities.
Maybe he’d draw it out, tease Atsumu for a week before finally fucking him in a fancy hotel in Ginza. Sometimes he thought about tying Atsumu down and taking it slow, gracing every inch of his body with his tongue before finally deflowering him. Kiyoomi hasn’t fucked a virgin since he was one, fumbling in the dark at volleyball camp. It’s not that he has a thing for virgins; he just has a thing for Atsumu’s virginity in particular, and wants to take it.
But Atsumu’s right; he’s always thought of it in private. He goes into the showers first, waits until he goes back to his room to pump his cock to the memory of Atsumu’s whines, faces his lockers when he changes.
It’s been so long though, and he’s fought a hard battle for this — the Hornets didn’t give them an easy victory — that he thinks he might be able to shy off everyone’s eyes.
No, that’s not it; he’s channeling Atsumu, actually. Gleaning power from the weight of everyone’s stares. Knowing that they’re watching, knowing that they want to be him. It fills him with pride.
“No, Atsumu,” he says finally, “I want it here. I want it now.” He leans his head forward so his mouth is right next to Atsumu’s head, breath ghosting over his ear. His voice is deep with desire while he speaks, feeling every place where their bodies touch, Atsumu’s heartbeat racing through both of them. “I want you naked and whining for me in front of the whole team. Screaming my name,” he growls, Atsumu shivering, “on my cock, while everyone else watches me taking what they’ll never have.”
Atsumu gasps, blushing, hot below him. “Omi-” he says, or tries, too, because Kiyoomi swallows it down in a sudden, all-consuming kiss.
It’s not Atsumu’s first; that much he knows, but Kiyoomi’s going to make it memorable if that’s the last thing he does. Atsumu tastes sweet, like victory. Kiyoomi tilts his head so he can better lick into his mouth, slots a thigh between Atsumu’s legs to spread them wide and force him to latch onto Kiyoomi to hold on tight, both hands gripping at Kiyoomi’s jersey.
This way Kiyoomi can kiss him deeper, lean down into him, overwhelm his body. Curve his hand up into his soft hair to latch on, turn him this way and that while Atsumu pants into his mouth. He opens his eyes for a second to watch Atsumu; his setter’s eyes are closed, dark eyelashes fluttering, above his cheeks, and he’s just starting to sweat again. It’s like kissing Kiyoomi is just as much of a workout as being on the court is, and he smiles into their kiss for a moment, before closing his eyes again.
He pulls Atsumu’s head harshly to the side, pressing wet kisses along his cheek and down the line of his neck. Through his lips he feels Atsumu’s harsh gasps. “Already breathless, because of me?” Kiyoomi mutters, darkly, just so Atsumu can hear.
“Omi! Who taught ya how to kiss so well?” It comes out in stuttering half-breaths, and Kiyoomi can’t believe how much Atsumu’s reacting from just kissing and the insistent pressure of Kiyoomi’s body.
“I excel at everything I do,” he says, before latching onto Atsumu’s neck, wanting to suck a hickey so he leaves a memory of tonight, and pressing his thick thigh even further between Atsumu’s legs, sending his breaths hitching and Atsumu scrambling to stay on his toes. “And when I don’t, I practice until I do. I can’t wait to show you the fruits of my labor.”
There’s a gasp — not from Atsumu, but from someone behind them. He rises from his place on Atsumu’s neck and turns to look at their team, the people he’d forgotten were watching him. Wide eyes on all their faces, some braced against the lockers and a few sitting on the benches. Hinata’s eager cock is already rock hard in his shorts, and Bokuto has a hand down his pants already. He doesn’t know who the gasp came from.
“Leave if you want to,” he says, looking at each one of them in turn. The sweat dripping down Meian’s neck, Inunaki’s eyes flicking between him and Atsumu, Barnes who just keeps blinking. Thomas, leaning forward on the bench, licking his lips.
No one makes a move to leave. Just as he thought. A dark smile crosses his face.
“Atsumu,” he says, hand still fisted in his hair, still looking out at the team, “let me take care of you.”
Atsumu’s heart is racing, rabbit quick, in his chest. Kiyoomi’s the one who made that happen. “Anything ya want, Omi-Omi.”
It takes some maneuvering — pushing Thomas out of the way, curling his MSBY jacket into a pillow for Atsumu, taking breaks for kissing — before he gets Atsumu where he wants him. Plump ass right in his face, the cheeks swelling in his shorts. Hands braced on the floor. He runs his hand over the curve of it, letting the cheek rest in his palm. The muscle twitches.
“Some rules,” he says, and everyone’s watching him. “Only I can touch Atsumu.” He runs his hand along his spine to demonstrate, slaps his ass to make Atsumu yelp.
“You all can touch yourselves, I don’t care what you do.” Bokuto sighs in relief, his hand starting to move in his pants already. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “ Don’t get your cum on me,” he warns, “or Atsumu.”
“Is that it?” Meian asks, voice thicker than normal, heavy with arousal.
Kiyoomi thinks for a moment. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, licking his lips. “Is there anything you want to add, Atsumu?”
“Nah, Omi,” Atsumu replies, voice already a little wrecked and slurry, ready for what’s to come, “I’m all yours.”
“Excellent,” he says, and then he starts unwrapping his gift.
He hadn't imagined it being this public, but he had imagined fucking Atsumu in the locker room after they won, whispering pretty little nonsense into his ear, making Atsumu fit his cock so well.
This makes sense, though; he couldn’t be MVP alone, so the rest of the team might as well share in his prize, in some way. He drags off Atsumu’s shirt, pulling it and his body up so his chest is displayed to the team, back pressed against Kiyoomi’s torso. Kiyoomi runs his hands down his abs, tight and lean with the postseason ranginess that overtakes them all, even Bokuto, when they’re hungry for the win and can’t eat fast enough to replace what they burn. He twitches when his hand grazes a nipple.
“Sensitive,” Kiyoomi mutters, a note to himself more than anything else, while Atsumu gasps. “Be loud,” he adds, rolling the nipple between his fingers as Atsumu starts huffing and twisting in his grasp, “I know you can manage that.”
Atsumu is loud in his room, but it’s nothing like how loud he is hear; free to let loose, hissing whine of “ Omi, please” echoes through the locker room while Kiyoomi keeps twisting and tugging at his nipple, other hand ghosting down the line of his body, his ribs and abs and the V at the base of his torso, before pushing down his shorts and underwear and pulling out his cock.
They’re gross, all of them; none of them have gotten the chance to shower, and Atsumu’s hair smells like sweat kissed with the faintest hint of his lavender shampoo. When Kiyoomi leans forward to kiss the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, he smells nothing but musk. That masculine undertone to Atsumu, his natural scent.
All of this? Fucking Atsumu? Winning? It’s just an extension of the court. No germs here, no mess.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he says, reveling in the soft drops of precum glistening at his tip. Runs a finger through the slit to feel the cock twitch in his hand. “All this just from a little kissing, Atsumu? You’re such a virgin.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, another curses. Above the sound of the vents, and Atsumu’s heavy breaths and his rapid pulse, he hears the wet sound of them touching themselves, hands on cocks, but he only has eyes for Atsumu. The rest of them blur, fade into the background.
Atsumu’s hips jolt, but Kiyoomi’s pressed against him so he’s pinned between his hand and Kiyoomi’s hips. “It’s a little more than kissin’, I think- ahh! ” he says, interrupted by Kiyoomi pumping his cock, making it wet with precum.
“You’re so cute for me, Atsumu,” he says, staring down the line of Atsumu’s body, shorts somewhere around his knees. Kiyoomi’s still fully dressed. The juxtaposition between the two is lovely; Kiyoomi unruffled, Atsumu on display, blush running down his chest, dark curls at the base of his cock. “So sweet, too. Look at how responsive you are.” He pinches his nipple and more precum drips, and pumps his cock, enough pleasure in the touch so Atsumu bites his lip.
Kiyoomi frowns, and releases his nipple so he can smack Atsumu’s thigh, just a little whack. “Don’t hold back, Atsumu, I want you to be loud.”
“B-but Omi,” he says, and his name sounds exactly the way Kiyoomi imagined it. Breathy, a little demanding.
“Don’t they all deserve to hear your sweet sounds? I couldn’t have gotten here without them. And anyone of them could be in my position, ready to fuck you. Don’t you want to be good for them?”
“Wanna be good for you, Omi,” Atsumu says, reaching back to tug at Kiyoomi’s own curls, a little matted from the game and the sweat, “anything ya want, I’ll do it. I’ll be loud for you, Omi. Only you.”
Kiyoomi gasps; Atsumu’s words go straight to his cock, throbbing in his pants. He wants to be inside Atsumu yesterday, god. One last kiss to his neck, right above the hickey, and then: “hands and knees, Atsumu,” he says, and Atusmu goes down on all fours.
Someone — Inunaki — had lube, so that’s what he’ll use. But first he leans down, examining Atsumu’s bare ass, taking all the time in the world to do it. His cock hands between his thighs, still dripping, dark with want and desire, his balls tight behind them.
Kiyoomi likes his cock, too; it’s big, bigger than he expected, honestly. He liked the heavy weight of it in his hand, the way it curves, how his dark head isn’t perfectly symmetrical. Wonders how Atsumu’s been keeping it a secret. It’s the kind of cock you keep on display, wandering the locker room with swagger, and judging by the look on Hinata’s face, and Barnes’ too, his teammates will be sleeping pretty tonight imagining it inside of them. Imagines Meian choking on it, or Bokuto bouncing on Atsumu.
For a second, too, he imagines sitting on Atsumu’s dick, riding him and edging him until he’s desperate to come.
But then Atsumu wiggles his hips, dark hole making Kiyoomi salivate. Another day, he thinks, and then wonders where that thought came from.
This is a one time thing; a prize for winning. This isn’t a tomorrow thing, or a forever thing. All this was about was Atsumu giving up an asset — and it is an asset, because it’s how they won, even if Atsumu doesn’t think his virginity is all that important — for volleyball.
And wasn’t that what all of them were doing? Giving up their bodies, their minds, their greatest years for the sake of the sport? For winning? For the elusive touch of victory?
“Ready for me, Atsumu?” he asks, clearing his mind of thought. “Do you want me to touch you?”
“ Please Omi.” He shakes his hips again, arching his ass even further up. Kiyoomi loves his flexibility, his thick thighs, what he can do on the court and off.
Without another word, he warms the lube in his hands, and reaches down, spreading Atsumu’s cheeks apart with one hand and circling the rim of his hole with his index finger. “You’ve touched yourself here before, right?” he asks, knowing full well that Atsumu has a collection of dildos and plugs that he plays with on his days off, sometimes riding them for hours.
“Y- yes, Omi,” he says, stuttering as Kiyoomi pl=unges two fingers inside him. “Warn a guy?”
“Knew you could take them,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu’s shoulders puff with pride. His fingers disappear into his hole, which stretches obscenely around the knobs. His are thinner than Atsumu’s, and they’re less dexterous too. What does Atsumu feel when he touches himself? Does he do it with the same grace and confidence he uses to set the ball, the delicate greeting he offers all of his hitters? Or does he go for it roughly?
“C’mon, c’mon,” Atsumu grunts out, pushing his hips back to suck Kiyoomi’s fingers in deeper, the taking them to the hilt as he starts to curve them inside of Atsumu, twisting so he can feel every inch of his walls, the ridge of muscle that makes Atsumu clench around him. “Gimme more, I can take it!”
Kiyoomi slaps his ass, watches it jiggle.” You’ll take what I give you,” he growls. “You’re such a slut for my fingers, aren’t you, Atsumu. Bet you can come like this, without a hand on your cock, just my fingers, huh?”
“I can, yeah, love to come untouched,” he says and Kiyoomi thinks there’s a story there, thinks he might like to hear it.
“Oh my god,” one of his teammates groans, like they’ve finally comprehending what they’re missing.
Atsumu is a perfect little slut, just for him; he’s spent years learning what makes him tick, and Kiyyoomi’s going to teach him that someone else’s hand can do the job just as well, if not better. Fuck what Atsumu said to Wakatoshi all those years ago; Kiyoomi’s hands can make Atsumu have a lot of fun.
“Then come,” Kiyoomi demands, crooking his fingers and circling his prostate harshly, aggressively, since he can tell from the sounds coming from Atsumu’s throat and the way his ass tightens around him that this is what he likes; something a little aggressive. Kiyoomi can do that.
He sneaks another finger in, just to see how easily Atsumu can take it. It slides into his slick ass, lube dripping out of his hole and down onto the floor of the locker room.
“We’ll have to clean up your mess thoroughly,” Kiyoomi says, still fcuking his fingers into Atsumu, still grazing his prostate, watching his cock as it drips and twitches and Atsumu’s thighs shake, until-
“Ah! Omi!” Atsumu yells, when Kiyoomi slaps his ass again, just on a hunch this time, and his core tightening is the only warning he gets before he cums, splashing it across his thighs and stomach and the floor, and Kiyoomi’s jacket, too.
There’s a frankly disgusting sound his fingers make when he pulls out of him, and Atsumu hisses, falling down to his elbows and pooling his head in his forearms.
He thinks one of his teammates also comes, if the cut off shout he hears, like someone just yelled into their fist, has anything to do with it.
For a moment he surveys the room. Everyone’s in different states of disarray, with their cocks out or their hands stuffed into their pants, heads lolled back against the wall. Kiyoomi’s in the center of the fray, in the well deserved spotlight, with solid gold in his hands.
And for the first time that night, he takes his own cock in hand. Coats it with lube, and taps the head against Atsumu’s ass, presses lightly against the rim while Atsumu hisses.
“Are you ready for me, Atsumu,” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, tensing up.
It gives Kiyoomi pause.
The thing about fucking a virgin is that you’re going to be the best they’ve ever had, for better or for worse. Even the most mediocre fucking sex — Kiyoomi, again, fisting his teammate’s cock dry in high school — is better than doing it alone, no matter what kind of tantric masturbation Atsumu gets up to in his spare time. But Kiyoomi’s anything but mediocre. Kiyoomi wants to be the best at what he does, and right now what he’s doing is fucking Atsumu.
He’s going to be the best damn lay Atsumu’s ever had; a fuck he’ll remember for years to come, use Kiyoomi as a measuring stick and see every other person come up short.
Something about that rings hollow inside of him; he’s not sure why he suddenly feels weak, stressed, a little sad, when he needs to be giving Atsumu the ride of his life. And that’s not going to happen when he’s tensing up like this, stressed and the opposite of relaxed.
Kiyoomi runs a hand down his back, the skin still tacky from sweat and the remnants of lube on his fingers. He’s not used to soothing, but he’ll try it anyway. “You’re going to take me so well, darling,” he says, the pet name slipping unexpectedly from his tongue. It feels more comfortable than he ever thought it would. “Just relax. Let me take care of you. ” His insistent hand keeps petting down Atsumu’s back, until the stress dissipates and he melts under his touch, sighing as his head slips down into the pillow of his arms.
“S’alright, Omi,” he says, voice a little faraway. Kiyoomi shivers in delight.
“Good boy,” he says. Atsumu gasps, a little hitching breath of a thing. Delicious. He presses his cock against Atsumu's hole, watches the way the ring swells around his head and stretches, sucking him in. Keeping a hand on Atsumu's lower back, he feels the way Atsumu breathes in to take him, deep and careful.
When Atsumu masturbates, he’s in total control of his pleasure; Kiyoomi wants to make him lose it. He wants to make him love this.
"You look so gorgeous wrapped around me, Atsumu," he coos, as he pushes in past the thickest part of his tip. Atsumu's so slick and hot, and it's driving Kiyoomi insane.
"Yeah? Doin' good for my first time?" He hears the sleepy grin in it, the pride.
"You'll make the grade." Kiyoomi leans over him, rests a hand on the floor next to his head to ground himself, and wraps the other around his chest. "Hold on tight, Atsumu. I won't make this easy for you." Atsumu doesn’t do easy, doesn’t do soft. He likes the challenge. Loves the ride.
One selfish kiss to the back of Atsumu’s neck later, he slides all the way home, bearing down into Atsumu until he's impaled him to the base of his thick cock.
He's not as long as Atsumu but he's wider around. Girthy enough to make Atsumu choke out his name — “Shit, Omi, fuck,” — while he rests inside of him, memorizing the heat, the pressure, the way he feels every heartbeat and breath from the inside out.
“This is the first real cock you’ve ever felt, Atsumu,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question. As he slides out, Atsumu hisses and falls forward in his grasp, relying on Kiyoomi — both of them still exhausted from a long match — to hold him up. “How does it compare to your toys?”
With an edge of cruelty, victory’s burden, he slams forward on the last word, punching the voice out of Atsumu. A sharp gasp escapes him, and he clenches around Kiyoomi’s cock.
“I asked you a question, Atsumu,” he says as he slowly pulls out, a faint cry coming from Atsumu, “I want you to answer.” Then back in.
It’s a little cruel; he does it over and over, the slow slide out before fucking rapidly back into him, giving him enough time to think about what to say before tricking the opportunity out of him.
“Silly little boy, don’t have the words?” Teasing him, voice loud enough to be heard by his teammates. Are they imagining themselves fucking Atsumu, now? Or are they thinking about Kiyoomi fucking them, being a little ragdoll in his arms, at his mercy, ready to be fucked at Kiyoomi’s leisure and will?
“Omi, Omi, c’mon, you’ve gotta give me a cha-hah!” Enough time to talk, not enough time to finish. “ Please, have mercy on me!” His voice sounds thick, and when Kiyoomi raises a messy hand to wipe at his face he’s greeted with tears.
“Did I make you cry, baby?” Pausing in his motions, he’s mystified by the tears. Even though Atsumu’s the easiest crier on their team, he didn’t think this would happen.
“You know exactly what you’re doin’,” he grumbles, sniffing. Definitely crying. When he looks up, Meian’s eyes are glued to Atsumu’s face, and Kiyoomi levels a dangerous grin as he notices.
“If you’re not going to answer my question, Atsumu, then your mouth is useless to me. We’re going to have to find something else for it to do.”
Atsumu is still, but gasps rise from the rest of the room like they have an inkling of what Kiyoomi’s going to do.
With a groan, he pulls Atsumu up from the floor so his whole naked chest and abdomen are on display to their watching teammates, back into that vulnerable position with a few key differences. The white, gooey mess on his thighs, his slutty cock hanging heavy and thick, half-chubbed from Kiyoomi grinding out of him, his skin a little pale from a long season, and glistening with sweat.
“Omi?” Atsumu asks, wiggling into his lap while he gets seated better on his cock. “What are you doing?”
Kiyoomi groans into his back. “Minx,” he mutters, and Atsumu’s delight spreads through his entire body. “ Brat,” he corrects, and stuffs his fingers into Atsumu’s mouth, gagging him.
“Fuck yeah,” someone — Barnes, probably — says, but he doesn’t really give a shit about their audience now that he has Atsumu like this.
This is his favorite position to fuck in. It’s lewd, a little degrading; his partner naked, shielding Kiyoomi, while all of their most private parts are on display, legs spread wide open around Kiyoomi’s bent knees. He gets to play with their bodies blindly, and he does that now: pumps his fingers into and out of Atsumu’s throat, pressing down on the velvet of his tongue, making spit drip down the sides of his mouth while he gurgles and hums and tries to swallow it all down; tugs at his nipples at random and cups his chest, squishing the flesh and reveling in the sensation; running his fingers up and down his torso, ghosting over his hair to tickle him with the lightest touch.
He’s grateful, too, that they’re nearly the same height. This way, he’s at the perfect angle to whisper nonsense into Atsumu’s ear.
Nonsense, like: “Do you like it when I touch your tits like that, baby? You’re so sensitive for me. Is this what you do when you touch yourself?” as he rubs spit into his chest, or “Shh, come on, just a little more,” when he reaches down to slide his cheeks wider apart, let gravity make Atsumu sink deeper onto his cock, or even “Yes, yes, just like that, keep sucking for me, you sweet little thing,” while Atsumu chokes on his fingers.
Stupid little words.
And this position suits Kiyoomi far, far better, too. His muscles were spent from the game, and the concentration it required from him — to keep that pace and now blow his load immediately from how perfectly Atsumu had sucked him in — was almost too much to bear.
This way, gravity helps him, a little bit.
Eventually, though, all good things must come to an end, and Kiyoomi’s cock is impatient, dripping with precum and anticipation everytime Atsumu so much as breathes. He’s masturbated in the last few months but it feels like he’s been edging himself the entire postseason, watching them tick up in the standings, making himself be better than the best for the chance to win and the chance to fuck Atsumu like this.
He’s been thinking about it for so long.
“Alright, baby,” he says, letting the words come freely now. His brain’s gone stupid with lust, probably. He pulls out of Atsumu’s mouth, leaving Atsumu panting and wiping up the spit that’s dripped all the way down his neck, and uses his wet hand to grip Atsumu’s cock.
“You’re gonna make me come again?” Atsumu whines.
“Would you prefer if I shut you up, again ?”
“...No.”
“Good boy,” Kiyoomi purrs out, kissing his back.
Then he gets to work, pumping Atsumu’s cock in slow, drawn out motions, that match the wind of his hips.
When Kiyoomi takes his time, this is how he likes to come: slowly, slowly, until it drains out of his body like a slow leak. Orgasms last an eternity this way, whether it’s his hand or a warm body wrapped around him.
Slowly, slowly, up and down. Slowly, in small circles, barely any movement in his hips. To their audience, it looks like Kiyoomi isn’t moving at all, but Atsumu bites his lip and grabs onto Kiyoomi’s hand, gripping tight as the pressure builds in his body.
“Are you ready to answer my question now, Atsumu?”
Silence for a moment, while the fire builds in Kiyoomi’s belly. “Huh?” he says, stupidly.
“Am I better than your toys?” He repeats, tightening his fist around Atsumu’s cock to punctuate the words.
“Well,” Atsumu starts, drawling out the word — someone gasps — because he’s still a cheeky little asshole at heart, and clearly Kiyoomi hasn’t fucked the impulse out of him. But Kiyoomi didn’t want to fuck Atsumu into puerile submission; he just wants him to cede control.
So he lets go of Atsumu’s cock entirely, lets it swing in the air, and stills inside of him, no matter how close to climax he is.
“ Omi! Why’d ya stop?” When Atsumu tries to reach for his cock, Kiyoomi grabs his arms.
“I want an answer, Atsumu,” he says flatly, darkly, exhausted and tired and wanting. “Or neither of us are moving from this spot.” An empty threat because Kiyoomi will come, eventually, from just the weight and pressure of Atsumu’s body alone. Maybe Atsumu could cockwarm him one day, but Kiyoomi can’t think about the future. Only now.
Atsumu quiets for a moment. He looks around at their team, takes stock of who has come, who’s still working, and who is staring at him, wide-eyed, wondering why Atsumu would dare not answer.
He gulps, and Kiyoomi tightens his grasp because he feels it in his cock and it’s the only thing keeping him from coming. Atsumu’s grounded him, and he hates how much he likes it.
“You’re so much better than my toys,” Atsumu admits, in a soft and hesitant voice. “I can’t believe what I’ve been missin’ all these years, not lettin’ someone fuck me like this, without a real cock in my ass or someone touchin’ me.”
Meian, he knows, because he’s staring him down, comes from Atsumu’s words.
Kiyoomi’s hand goes back to his cock. “Good-” he says, or tries to say, but Atsumu shakes his head and interrupts him.
“I’m glad it’s you, Kiyoomi, who’s teachin’ me how much I like it,” he says, and the use of his full name breaks through Kiyoomi’s horny haze. “Like that you’re the one takin’ my virginity.” His whole body warms with a blush, and then — softly, so only Kiyoomi’s supposed to hear, but there’s a room full of men hanging on Atsumu’s every word, just like their season rested in his careful, beautiful hands — a confession. “I always wanted it to be you. Dreamed it’d be you. Knew when I set the terms that you’d win.”
And Kiyoomi-
It’s just-
Maybe this is why he fought for it. Maybe it’s not just winning, but it’s also Atsumu’s faith in him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have shared this prize after all.
“Atsumu,” he says, but he doesn’t have the words to finish the thought.
The room is so, so still for a while. Nothing but their breaths and rapid heartbeats filling the air.
Kiyoomi’s forehead pressed to the back of Atsumu’s neck, Atsumu waiting naked — in more ways than one — for an answer.
He tightens the arm still wrapped around Atsumu’s middle. Thought he might not have the words yet, he has the action.
For one last time he manhandles them into a new position: Atsumu on the floor, facing up, legs wrapped around Kiyoomi’s waist while he hovers above him. They’re face to face, eye to eye, forehead to forehead, and Kiyoomi’s blinded by the force of his smile.
“Eyes on me,” Kiyoomi says, covering Atsumu from the rest of the room, just like how all of this started. “Only me.”
“Anything you say, Omi,” Atsumu replies, before wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi’s back and holding on.
Fucking like this feels personal; Kiyoomi pounding into Atsumu, his cock trapped between their bodies, their abs tensing with every thrust. Kiyoomi lets himself kiss Atsumu; nothing deep but still demanding, pecks on his cheeks, his lips, his nose. He cradles Atsumu’s head in his hands like he’s made of precious gold and fucks him until he can’t stop; there’s only one way forward, one way through, his orgasm sneaking up on him like his feelings for Atsumu.
The reason he wanted, so badly, to fuck him. The reason why thinking about this as a one time thing felt so hollow. The reason why he was so desperate to have Atsumu say he was better than a toy; because that way, at least for one moment, he knew he would be the best Atsumu would ever have.
But there’s another way to be the best he’ll ever have. “I’m playing for keeps, Atsumu,” he says, thrusts lasting longer and longer as passion curves down his spine, into his ground and gut, “I’m defending my title.”
“I thought you weren’t one for metaphors,” Atsumu teases, grinding his cock against Kiyoomi’s abs.
“It means I’m keeping you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
And then, finally, it reaches him. Something burning and just on the other side of painful, pleasure rearing up in his cock; his mind white with it, no thoughts in his head but gold and mine and Atsumu, while his cum shoots out inside of him. He’s mindlessly chanting a litany of Atsumu’s name, and, on the very edge of his pleasure, feels something warm seep out onto his stomach.
When he comes to, Atsumu fills his vision, smile blinding, sated and delighted.
“We’re never doing that again,” Kiyoomi says, while they’re scrubbing cum out of the tile.
“Aww, really?” Atsumu teases, “I thought it was kinda fun!”
Kiyoomi looks up at him, eyes dark. “I don’t want to share you anymore. Your sounds are only for me, do you understand?”
Atsumu blinks, then he grins. Challenge, once again, and Kiyoomi’s back tingles with danger, like he’s just walked into a trap. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”