Chapter Text
Atë, Até or Aite (/ˈeɪtiː/; Ancient Greek: ἄτη) is the Greek goddess of
mischief, delusion, ruin, and folly.
Até also refers to an action performed by a hero
that leads to their death or downfall.
“Whadaya have for me today?” Atsumu asks, shifting where he’s sitting with a pillow on his back, his hands cuffed to the newly-installed metal headboard, legs crossed. He’s naked, adding an odd kind of intimacy to what Kiyoomi’s about to do.
“For today, I have a test for your limits,” Kiyoomi says with a smirk. He’s sitting across from Atsumu, still fully clothed.
Atsumu tilts his head, a grin on his face. He is still dashing, Kiyoomi thinks, even without the blood and the sweat, even with his neglected dark roots. His bleached hair caresses his forehead with the motion, his undercut adding edge to his profile.
Kiyoomi is holding a small remote in his palm, warm with his own body heat. He smiles in return to Atsumu’s bright grin, and holds his palm forward.
Atsumu looks down at the remote with a confused frown. A question mark begins to form on his face, and Kiyoomi reaches behind, placing the remote in Atsumu’s palm. “Press.”
The first click does nothing. Atsumu looks at the ceiling, trying to feel the remote with his fingers only, and then clicks a button. A muffled buzz fills the room, and Kiyoomi gasps.
Atsumu’s mouth hangs open in shock and they hear the clatter of the remote where it falls behind the bed from his hand.
Kiyoomi feels himself clenching around the vibrator, and lets out a sigh. “Thank you, Atsumu.”
Atsumu doesn’t look like he has recovered. His eyes are blown even wider when Kiyoomi reaches for his own t-shirt, removing it with a rough motion and throwing it to the side. He grinds his hips in the air, on his knees, trying to feel more pressure and friction in his ass.
Atsumu swallows audibly.
Kiyoomi’s hands reach for his own neck, one hand reaching for his hair, the other travelling down his chest to reach his left nipple. With a sharp motion he pinches and twists it, letting out a crooked moan in the face of pain.
He hears Atsumu gasp. “Omi…”
Kiyoomi smiles softly, his hand traveling down, down, and reaches the waistband of his sweatpants. He plays with the hem softly, occasionally clenching around the vibrator. “You know, Atsumu…”
Atsumu takes a sharp breath in, like he always does when Kiyoomi uses his given name.
“For today, I’d love to have your thick cock rearranging my guts,” Kiyoomi breathes out. Atsumu’s mouth hangs open, his dick stirring, laying half-hard against his inner thigh. “But that will have to wait for another day. Today, I’m going to come undone, and you’re going to watch me.”
Atsumu swallows, watching Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi doesn’t fiddle and lowers his sweatpants and boxers to his knees, his cock springing out, fully hard.
He takes it into his hand, giving it one slow stroke. He sits down on his heels, the vibrator pushing itself deeper into Kiyoomi’s ass, and he groans in pleasure. His lip bitten hard, he dazedly looks at Atsumu, who seems to be watching him, eyes blown wide, unblinking. “I want you to fuck me so badly, Atsumu.”
Atsumu whimpers, his cock jumping at the statement.
Kiyoomi strokes his dick again, his hips gyrating in the air, every motion shooting another blinding spark of pleasure throughout his spine. He lets his mouth hang open, a dragged moan vibrating his bones. Atsumu’s rough and fast breaths fill the room, desperate.
“I want to feel you so deep in me that I beg you to slow down,” Kiyoomi purrs, followed by a groan when he grips his cock harder and strokes it. “I want you to fuck me like there’s no other way to do it. I want you to ruin me. I want you to fucking wreck me.”
“Let me,” Atsumu chokes out, rattling the headboard with a yank on the handcuffs. His cock is flushed, a gorgeous shade of pink.
“Not today, baby,” Kiyoomi murmurs, and then pulls the vibrator out.
He growls through the sensation, carelessly dropping the object onto the floor. He reaches two digits forward, and Atsumu opens his mouth as soon as he sees the motion.
His tongue is flat, malleable under Kiyoomi’s fingers. Kiyoomi smirks, one hand on his cock, the other in Atsumu’s mouth. He crudely feels around Atsumu’s mouth, absolutely no finesse in his motions, and draws his fingers back, spit-shiny.
He reaches behind, his fingers teasing his rim. “Do you know how much I fantasized about you?”
“What?” Atsumu asks, very weakly.
“I—” Kiyoomi gasps as he pushes two fingers in, the other hand still on his cock. “I fantasized about you fucking me raw, way before we started. Since I joined the team a year ago. I fantasized about you coming down my throat. Pressing me onto the bed and thrusting in me until I begged you to stop, covered in tears, spit and snot.”
His voice grows weaker as he thrusts his fingers inside him, moaning. “Atsumu… god, I want you inside me so bad.”
“Omi, let me,” Atsumu breathes, unconsciously leaning forward — as much as the restraints allow him. His cock is leaking onto his thigh, pearly drops of precome seeping out.
“But no,” Kiyoomi continues weakly, eyes closed, fingers thrusting in and out. “No, you had to fuck others and make me stare at the scratch marks and hickeys in the locker room. I kept wondering what kind of sounds you made when you came. I kept wondering how hard I could choke you. I…” He lets out a mewling sound, and gasps for a breath. “I came so many times pathetically moaning your name.”
“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu breathes. “Please. Please.”
“And then you bled,” Kiyoomi whispers, hardly holding back a gasp. He thrusts his fingers harder, his strokes on his cock faster. “And I lost whatever control I had. You destroyed me with one single image in my head, and there was no going back.”
When he opens his eyes, Atsumu is looking at him with eyes so dark that Kiyoomi wonders if he’s going to break the restraints and jump onto him. All pupil, no golden.
And then, like a sick joke, a heavy, dark crimson drop gives into gravity and dribbles down to Atsumu’s upper lip.
Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes firmly fixated on Kiyoomi’s, his body hunched forward to be able to get closer to him, no matter how little. Kiyoomi watches the blood seep into Atsumu’s mouth between his parted lips, and Atsumu’s focus breaks for a second when he notices the taste.
He looks shocked when his gaze returns to Kiyoomi. “I’m… I’m not on aspirin.”
Kiyoomi bites his lip, raising a brow while still ruthlessly fucking himself with his fingers.
He chuckles weakly, his words followed by a weak, broken groan. “God, the first time I tasted your blood. All I wanted to do was to lick you more, to fuck your mouth until I felt the blood everywhere on my skin, on yours. I wanted to taste you — all of you. Your spit, your come, your sweat. The idea of tasting you was…” He whimpers brokenly, riding his own fingers, “tantalizing.”
Atsumu’s eyes are desperate and dark, fixated on Kiyoomi. Blood dances on his lips and draws a small ribbon towards his chin.
And then one ruby drop falls onto Atsumu’s cock.
Kiyoomi throws his head back, growling at the image and the sensation. His jerking off becomes fervent, sweat rolling down his neck and shoulders, his breaths ragged and shattered. He looks at Atsumu between hooded eyelids, and smiles. “The first time I tasted you, Atsumu…”
He inches closer to the man, still at a safe distance but proximal enough. “I felt… I felt like I owned you. I didn’t want anyone else to have you again. You’re mine to take and fuck whenever I need it, whenever I want to be thoroughly, absolutely dazed with your blood on my tongue and your body crumbling under my hands.”
His strokes become faster, his fingers pumping into his ass without stop. His voice breaks. “You’re mine. You’re mine.”
Atsumu’s mouth is parted, breathing fast and shallow. Kiyoomi watches the blood drip down his nose, his lips, his chin, and focuses on his fingers in his ass. He groans, his back arched and every nerve in his body aflame.
“And,” he breathes, dangerously close to the edge, looking down at Atsumu. Atsumu looks back at him with flushed cheeks, wet lips and his cock an angry red, still leaking. “Atsumu.”
“Yes,” Atsumu breathes without thought, hyperfixated. “Yes. What is it?”
“I’m going to,” Kiyoomi groans, feeling the dangerous, lethal heat envelop him, his fingers moving faster. “I’m going to let everyone know that you’re mine and mine only .”
With a final stroke he growls, unable to see Atsumu’s facial reaction to Kiyoomi’s words but still hearing his scandalized gasp, and sparks explode behind his eyes, a siren deafening him in his ears. He feels hot come spurting out of his cock, and he keeps stroking, animalistic groans vibrating through his chest and his throat.
He opens his eyes, finding that Atsumu’s eyes are closed, blood and come all over his face. A new gush of blood flows onto his lips, onto his chin and right onto his cock, his mouth lolled open with his tongue sticking out to be able to catch as much of Kiyoomi’s load as he can. Red and white draw ribbons on his mouth and cheekbones, one iridescent pearly line over Atsumu’s nose and brow.
Kiyoomi groans, milking the last of the orgasm out of his own body. One last spurt lands directly on Atsumu’s tongue.
Kiyoomi withdraws his fingers with a moan, taking a second to catch his breath. He looks down at Atsumu, taking in the view. Then he leans forward, closes his eyes and tastes his own come and Atsumu’s blood on their mouths.
Atsumu whimpers pathetically to the kiss, their tongues working heavily with a salty, metallic taste — a heavenly combination, a haunting flavor. Kiyoomi moans, his hands flying up to Atsumu’s neck to kiss him deeper, and Atsumu only draws back to breathe.
“Omi…” he gasps, begging. “Please… please touch me, please, please—”
Kiyoomi drags his fingers under Atsumu’s nose, collecting some of the blood. He leans in to lick him clean, his bloody hand lowered until it grabs Atsumu’s painfully hard cock.
Blood as lube.
Delectable.
Kiyoomi doesn’t take his time — he strokes fast and strong, and not even half a minute passes before Atsumu starts babbling, tears in the corners of his eyes. “Omi, oh my god that feels so good, Omi, Omi keep going, please, faster—”
Kiyoomi hums onto his lips, letting his hand’s pace get rougher, the warm blood beneath his hands slippery and so Atsumu.
Within seconds Atsumu throws his head back and yells as come spurts out of his bloody cock, right onto Kiyoomi’s chest and then dripping down onto the mattress. Kiyoomi keeps going until Atsumu whimpers, tears rolling down his cheeks, the last of his orgasm landing on Kiyoomi’s fist at the head of Atsumu’s dick.
Kiyoomi steals another bloody kiss from Atsumu’s lips, then without missing a beat, he bends down and takes Atsumu’s cock — his blood and come — into his mouth.
When he says he wants to lick him clean, Kiyoomi means it.
✵
Sex becomes routine; perhaps routine for Atsumu, but almost heroine for Kiyoomi.
One unsuspicious evening when they’re lingering on Kiyoomi’s couch, Atsumu scrolling through Instagram and Kiyoomi answering a few texts, Atsumu doesn’t even raise his head when he speaks.
“Omi-Omi, you know I’d let ya cut me, right?”
Kiyoomi snaps his head towards him in shock, unable to form words.
At that, Atsumu faces him, a look of determination and confidence on his face.
They stare at each other, one shocked and the other unbothered, until finally Kiyoomi manages to speak. “What?”
Atsumu shrugs, a slight grin on his face. “I really like it, and if my body’s not gonna do it on its own, I’mma let ya do it.”
Kiyoomi’s head spins with the immense level of absolute trust Atsumu’s offering him. The possibility of seeing him bleed is intoxicating, but the possibility of harming him is terrifying.
“I don’t know anything about cutting someone safely.”
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Atsumu responds, as if that explains anything. “Yer the only person I can trust about this, ‘cause I know yer gonna research the fuck out of it. So get ready and do it.”
Atsumu turns his head back to his phone, as if he didn’t shatter Kiyoomi’s world in a few sentences.
Kiyoomi just stares at him, incredulous.
✵
Kiyoomi really does research the fuck out of it.
He starts as soon as Atsumu leaves, that sick joy filling his chest again. He can no longer find it in himself to be disgusted — it’s too intense a relief to see Atsumu bleed for it to be bad. It’s probably still very wrong, and filthy, and god knows what else.
Kiyoomi doesn’t care.
The first thing he learns is that they need a safe aid kit, which makes sense. So, he researches his options. Buying a pre-made kit and making some additions of his own seems to be his best option: the kit comes with ice packs, gauzes, band-aids, and antiseptic solutions. He adds other solutions that won’t burn the wound, antibiotic cream, anti-scarring pomade, cuter band-aids with foxes that will probably cheer Atsumu up in case of a subdrop, a blanket, some plush toys. He also takes note to keep his phone close to him, so that if any trouble is to arise he can call an ambulance.
Then, he learns about the safe places to cut someone — inside of joints are out of the question, so are the neck and thin skin, like armpits and Achilles heels. Sharp knives — surgical tools specifically — turn out to be best and most suitable, since they draw blood with less potential of leaving permanent scars. No blood thinners, no clotting disorders — that’s already covered.
The inside of his biceps are definitely not going to be cut due to the major arteries, and Kiyoomi learns that thighs and buttocks are safe, so are forearms. He does a bit more research about chests, and learns that men’s chest skin is more durable, and therefore, it is safe to cut there.
The clarification that knife play is different from blood play rings true, but Kiyoomi intends to connect them. He wonders about the effect a knife will have on Atsumu — the thrill, the fear. His lips curl upwards thinking about it.
After all the theory, he moves onto practice. The first thing he does is buy dozens of tomatoes, and within a mere week his counter is littered with slaughtered vegetables in an attempt to remove their delicate layer of skin. However, after the sixth day, he manages to skin three tomatoes without harming a single one, and lets out a relieved exhale.
Then, he thinks he might be ready. He doesn’t intend to cut Atsumu deeply, just draw a little — planning to play with the concepts of fear and excitement combined with a little bit of blood.
He’s so excited that it’s obscene.
He doesn’t care.
Exactly forty-three days after Atsumu so fucking casually tells him that he’s going to let Kiyoomi cut him, Kiyoomi tells him he’s ready.
✵
Three days later, Atsumu is on Kiyoomi’s bed, blindfolded and naked while Kiyoomi sets out his instruments.
He looks at the knives he set up: one, a dull one for fear play; then a sharp, sterile set of little surgical blades. He has the safety kit nearby, ice packs taken from the freezer and placed on top. His phone is on silent, sitting on the nightstand.
They’re ready.
Atsumu seems nervous, and Kiyoomi straddles the man, still fully clothed himself. “How are you feeling?”
“Excited,” Atsumu manages to choke out, a lopsided grin on his face. Kiyoomi wishes he could see his eyes right now to comfort him a little more.
“Do you want me to take off the blindfold?”
“Nah, I wanna try it like this for the first time,” Atsumu says through his grin. His cold hands sneak their way under Kiyoomi’s t-shirt and set themselves on his oblique muscles.
Kiyoomi knows that this is scary, for both of them too. But he wants to comfort Atsumu before he unleashes all hell on him.
So, he leans forward and kisses him.
Atsumu sighs with heavy relief into the kiss, hands flying up to gently grab his curls. It feels so intimate that for a second, Kiyoomi wants to keep kissing him forever. They’re taking a big step into the unknown, the only tangible thing being the absolute trust they have in each other, and Kiyoomi notices that he would not have it any other way, with any other person.
He takes his time kissing Atsumu with no rush at all, softly tasting him and placing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the corner of his lips, on his jawline, on his nose. He grinds onto him very slowly, feeling both of their cocks stirring and becoming half-hard. He gently holds Atsumu’s hands, placing them above his head, touching the metal bars of the headboard.
Suddenly, the lack of skin-to-skin contact is disturbing.
He draws back for only a second and throws his t-shirt to a far corner of the room before leaning in again, compassionately intertwining their fingers once more, pressing their naked, hot chests together.
Atsumu growls at his touch, his lower back arching up, searching for more contact. Kiyoomi smiles softly, kissing his lips, then moving to his neck, drawing a gentle line of warmth from his collar bone to his sternum, nuzzling Atsumu’s faint chest hair a little. It smells like him.
It’s all so him.
Everything about this comes back to him .
Atsumu doesn’t know what’s planned for today — aside from the obvious knife play — and that only excites Kiyoomi more. He lets his limbs loosen on Atsumu, focused on nothing else but kissing him — those soft, plush lips, always hungry for more of Kiyoomi’s taste, letting out tender groans and sighs as Kiyoomi does his best to communicate his infatuation and compassion through kisses.
Kiyoomi pushes himself forward, placing a kiss right beneath Atsumu’s armpit, feeling the man shiver under him. He smiles, then bites gently, and Atsumu’s hips jerk upwards with a groan from his mouth. So sensitive.
So beautiful.
Kiyoomi moves up, kissing the inside of Atsumu’s bicep, placing playful licks on the inside of his elbow, biting on his forearm. Atsumu is grinding his hips towards Kiyoomi’s at this point, both of them hard and a bit sweaty. Kiyoomi only lets go when Atsumu whimpers.
He quickly places the leather handcuffs on Atsumu’s wrists, the chain going through the metal bars. He takes a moment to lean back and just look.
Atsumu’s chest is rising and falling at an elevated rate, already struggling to catch his breath. He had been shuffling, but the blindfold is still firmly in place. Kiyoomi smiles at the thought of how desperate but excited he must feel, relying on touch and sound; vulnerable and open. Atsumu’s abdominals flex in anticipation when Kiyoomi slides a bit lower, waiting for whatever Kiyoomi has planned next. Mouth slightly parted, he’s already weak. With every little motion he startles, his body immensely responsive and taut. Kiyoomi can’t wait to ruin him.
He doesn’t break the contact between their groins, although while reaching sideways for the knife, Atsumu’s hard and leaking cock is an intoxicating view — Kiyoomi’s mouth waters.
But that’s for later.
He grabs the dull knife, tested multiple times beforehand and proven to be unable to cut skin unless pressed exceptionally hard, and stares down at Atsumu with the knife in his right hand.
“Are ya gonna wait forever?” Atsumu asks, his voice tense. It is supposed to be bratty, but the way he breathes out the words is desperate and fervent, maybe a little bit broken.
Kiyoomi smirks, a sudden rush of dominance coursing through his veins, and spins the knife between his fingers while tilting his head. He takes a moment to think, then drags the tip of the knife from Atsumu’s abs towards his chest, his touch featherlight but certainly felt. “Are you really in a position to be questioning me?”
Atsumu sneers at him with such primalness that Kiyoomi feels his mouth go dry. It’s a noise of animals, like watching a wolf growl at someone with a weapon, unrefined and thoroughly threatening.
“Ya underestimate me, Omi,” Atsumu spits through a feral growl, teeth bared in bratty defiance despite his cock growing harder at Kiyoomi’s words. His abs clench at the contact of the knife, his body involuntarily jerking, although he tries to suppress it.
Kiyoomi finds himself hovering over him in a flash, the cold metal of the knife directly on the hot pulse of Atsumu’s neck. It’s dull, but Atsumu doesn’t know that. “Do I, now?”
Atsumu gasps, a shiver running down his entire spine, his hands rattling the headboard. He opens his mouth but a groan tumbles out instead of words when Kiyoomi presses the knife harder.
The view is bewildering: Atsumu in shambles, the cool blade pressing into the delicate, vulnerable skin of his neck. It should be awful, or maybe repulsive, to think highly of the possibility of harming Atsumu… but all Kiyoomi can think of is that the dizzying power he holds over him. He can hurt him if he wants, can make him beg for his life. He can control him like a puppet. It’s an intoxicating kind of authority.
He roughly caresses the naked man in front of him, his free hand sweeping the expanse of skin from Atsumu’s neck to his chest. “Are you going to be a good boy or do I have to make you, Atsumu?”
Atsumu swallows audibly, his cock twitching at Kiyoomi’s tone. His voice comes out weak — still an attempt at being defiant but very clearly crumbling down. “And what’re ya gonna do to make me?”
“Well,” Kiyoomi purrs, drawing the tip of the knife through the side of Atsumu’s throat as Atsumu rattles the headboard with yanks on the handcuffs, his breath fast and terrified. “You’re a tied up, little prey in front of me, and I’m the one with a knife to your throat.”
He leans down, his hot breath fanning Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu shivers, the vibrations reverberating against Kiyoomi’s bones, and lets out a weak whimper. Kiyoomi drags the tip of the knife in a vertical column from Atsumu’s jawline to his collarbone, and then proceeds to draw a thick, hot line on the same column with his tongue. He feels like an animal, his primalness drawing a growl out of him. He wants to smell his pheromones, right in the crook of his neck. He wants to hurt him. To see him come undone with fear and unrestrained lust.
He bites hard at the softest flesh of Atsumu’s throat with full intentions of breaking the skin, then playfully licks at it. “And I’m holding your fragile little neck in between my teeth.”
He grinds his hips forward, hearing Atsumu gasp out a breath, the headboard rattling. When he speaks, it’s breathy and husky. “I don’t think you have a choice, little one.”
Atsumu seems to be far too gone to defy him, because after one other jerk at the restraints he bites his lip so hard that it looks like it’s going to bleed. Not that Kiyoomi has anything against that. “Yes.”
“Yes, what, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi asks throatily, nibbling on the bruise he left on Atsumu’s neck, the knife in his right hand threateningly pressed onto his hot, jolting pulse.
“I’m sorry,” Atsumu states with a shaking voice, his cock so hard that it has to be aching. “Please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be good for you. Please.”
“Please what?”
Atsumu whines, wriggling under him to feel more friction. Kiyoomi smirks, taking a disturbing kind of pride in being able to make the proud, exuberant man beg him like this. Atsumu sucks on his bottom lip again, then lets go, his voice a whimper. “Please cut me. Make me bleed. Fuck me. Please.”
Kiyoomi hums indecisively at that, licking right below Atsumu’s ear, feeling the man growl under him. He purrs into his ear, his free hand brushing over Atsumu’s hard cock. “I’m not completely convinced that you deserve it.”
Atsumu lets out a sob-like sound, desperate more than anything. “Omi, I’m begging you — please, please, I’ll do anything—”
Kiyoomi hums into his ear, feeling Atsumu squirm where he lies under him. He knows the feeling, knows his insides are grating at the sound.
It makes his blood sing.
“Well,” he murmurs lowly. “Let’s see.”
He presses the tip of the knife on Atsumu’s pulse, and immediately hears the way Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat. His free hand suddenly grabs Atsumu’s cock, giving it one slow stroke.
Atsumu throws his head back, toes flexing, his hips gyrating against Kiyoomi’s. Kiyoomi’s lips curl. “Stay still.”
Atsumu whimpers. Kiyoomi sits a bit lower, shifting himself until he’s straddling Atsumu’s knees, and slowly drags the knife down Atsumu’s chest. He slaps Atsumu’s nipple with the flat side of the knife, reveling in the sound of metal lapping against moist skin and Atsumu’s gasp. “Pretty.”
Atsumu’s almost hyperventilating, still rattling the headboard occasionally when he startles at Kiyoomi’s motions, and lets out a feral growl when Kiyoomi drags the tip of the knife down his abdomen, and then across Atsumu’s groin.
“Such a precious, poor little thing,” Kiyoomi states off-handedly, watching goosebumps fan across Atsumu’s skin with marvel. “All tied up and pathetic for me.”
Atsumu’s breaths get louder by the second. Kiyoomi takes a second to think, then softly drags the tip of the knife from the base of Atsumu’s cock. His eyes focus on the gentle slide of the knife, the hiss of a breath Atsumu lets out through his clenched teeth making his own dick throb. Atsumu’s cock jolts under the sharp pressure, and Kiyoomi presses a little harder, continuing the line he’s drawing on Atsumu’s cock, up until it slides over the oversensitive, dripping tip.
The noise that leaves the man’s throat is inhumane. It’s throaty, vibrates through his chest and skull, the headboard rattling with such force that Kiyoomi momentarily wonders if this one will break too. He can feel Atsumu squeezing his glutes in an attempt to stay still, but it’s not working. Kiyoomi raises his chin, looking down at Atsumu with filthy glare, a hedonic rush through his body.
Atsumu tries to slow down his breathing, but every fiber in his body seems to be ablaze, jerking and grinding whenever Kiyoomi touches him.
Kiyoomi leans forward, licking a fiery line from Atsumu’s groin to his iliac furrow. Atsumu sobs, his words broken down. “Omi, Omi please, please—”
Kiyoomi doesn’t ask him this time, already knowing the answer. He leans forward and lets go of the knife with a loud clattering sound on the floor, grabbing Atsumu’s cock and wrapping his lips around the tip to taste the salty precome. Atsumu growls, his hips jerking upwards. Kiyoomi, having expected this, presses down on his hip bones strongly, firmly keeping him in place.
Then he slowly lowers himself until he feels Atsumu’s fat cock at the back of his throat, choking him.
It’s wrong to say that a blowjob is a submissive action. Kiyoomi’s in control of Atsumu’s breathing, hiccups, sobs, shivers; solely with what he does with his tongue and teeth. Atsumu is breathing rapidly through his mouth now, a shaking mess of sweat and precome. Kiyoomi lingers in deep-throating him, uses his hand and relaxes his jaw until he feels Atsumu’s whole body in tremors.
There’s something he’s going to do that Atsumu doesn’t know about.
Kiyoomi abruptly abandons him, standing up and walking towards his nightstand. Atsumu lets out a sorrowful sound, quietly sobbing. Kiyoomi smiles at that, taking his pants and underwear off, and then takes the bowl of lube he prepared beforehand and one sterile blade with him.
He places them on the far end of the bed. With one deep breath, he reaches behind and removes the butt plug in his ass, groaning at the stretch. Atsumu whimpers when he hears Kiyoomi.
Precious.
Kiyoomi throws his knee over Atsumu’s thighs again but doesn’t sit on his lap completely. He reaches sideways, unpacking the sterile blade, and leans forward so that their cocks brush. Atsumu lets out a moan.
“You know,” Kiyoomi breathes, dragging the dull back of the knife across Atsumu’s chest. “Seeing you bleed is something… something I can’t quite describe, Atsumu. Seeing you so raw, covered with something that is supposed to stay inside you. Close to death, in danger. All I want to do is to lick you clean. Maybe after hurting you more.”
Atsumu groans, breathless.
“But then, baby,” Kiyoomi purrs. “Then there’s the taste of your blood.” He presses the blade gently on Atsumu’s skin, dragging it in a thin, long line, covering his pectoral top to bottom. Atsumu moans at the pain, the sound dragged into a pleasured whine in moments. “It drives me wild. It makes me forget what is right or what is sane.”
He dazedly watches as blood drops rise to the surface in rich, scarlet spheres immediate seconds after he pulls the blade through the skin, his mouth watering at the view as it always does. He subtly wonders when, or if ever, Atsumu’s blood will stop making him feel like a starved, feral animal. “And all I want to do is to lick you clean. ”
He abruptly sits down on Atsumu’s cock without any warning, taking all of him in one smooth motion.
Atsumu gasps with shock, the noise becoming a dragged, haunting moan in just a second. His body is convulsing, rattling under the restraints, thoroughly jolted and sweaty with the overload of sensations. There really are teardrops dripping down his cheeks. “Omi, Omi please, let me touch you, ohmygod ohmygod—”
Kiyoomi drags his index finger across the cut, watching the vermillion liquid smear onto his finger with wonder.
“Atsumu, you drive me fucking insane.”
With that, he shoves his index finger into Atsumu’s open mouth, leans forward to close his mouth on the wound, and starts riding him while they taste Atsumu’s blood simultaneously.
Atsumu groans with the taste of blood on his tongue and Kiyoomi can’t do anything but agree with his lips on Atsumu’s wound, sucking in the blood — the rich, bright tones of copper; the sugary bitter taste of Atsumu, the sweet metallic hues — it’s dizzyingly beautiful.
Spellbindingly, devastatingly delicious.
He feels so connected to Atsumu — same blood on their tongues, limbs intertwined, Atsumu’s cock thrusting deep into him and threatening to push Kiyoomi over a cliff of pleasure.
It’s kinky, yes, and it’s dangerous to play with knives, true. But it’s fascinatingly, eerily sensual — the trust Atsumu places in him is bewildering, this is a literal matter of life and death. The obedience is dizzying — Atsumu, with all his lack of finesse and gaudiness, willing to endure blades cutting his skin just for Kiyoomi’s pleasure. In fact, it feels like all Atsumu’s existence is serving is Kiyoomi’s pleasure — a fucktoy, a pretty little thing to ruin. It gets even better when Kiyoomi knows this is a joy for the man beneath him.
Not to mention, Atsumu looks plain sexy like this. He seems to be on the brink of some different reality that isn’t their own: his hair is mushed, his cheeks are pink, his lips wet and swollen. Kiyoomi finds himself crazed over the image — it makes his cock twitch, hanging heavy and red on his stomach. Atsumu is the picture of sex, like this, and Kiyoomi cannot think a single goddamn thought.
But aside from the lust and passion, the way he’s lying in front of him is such a loud act of trust and devotion that Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with it, except for the clear aim of giving back to Atsumu as much as he can. Making him feel as loved and trusted as Kiyoomi feels right now. That’s the reason he doesn’t even bother with a condom — Atsumu always craves naked skin contact, and this is the only way Kiyoomi can think of to give him what he deserves.
He wants this to be a thank you for all of this, all of him.
He lets go of the cut, proceeding to ride Atsumu in slow but deep thrusts. He watches as more tears stream down Atsumu’s cheekbones, the man rattling the handcuffs viciously, and his hips jerking upwards for more. The view is entrancing — Atsumu in tears, saliva oozing from the corners of his lips, groaning and howling, blood smeared on his chest with Kiyoomi’s fingers in his mouth. Tears drip from the empty crooks under the blindfold.
Kiyoomi places both palms on Atsumu’s abdomen, using the leverage to ride him a little bit harder. All skin is slippery with sweat, the wet lapping sounds of Kiyoomi slamming himself against Atsumu, and the cut on Atsumu’s chest starts to drip blood sideways.
Kiyoomi leans forward, pressing their chests together, and takes Atsumu’s face between his hands. He doesn’t stop riding him, but he needs to be closer, closer — he closes his eyes and kisses Atsumu, feeling the warm, smooth crimson smearing onto his own chest as well, sweat and blood making them slip on each other’s skin even more.
Atsumu whines into the kiss, his sweat salty on top of his lip. Kiyoomi feels the heat entwining his lower abdomen, hears Atsumu’s telltale hiccups of Kiyoomi’s name.
He reaches forward and disconnects the chain, setting Atsumu’s hands free.
Atsumu’s hands fly down onto Kiyoomi’s waist in an instant, a growl through his mouth as he pistons into Kiyoomi harder. Kiyoomi feels his eyes roll back at the thrusts. “Atsumu, too deep, too deep—”
“Not deep enough,” Atsumu whines between sobs. “I needta— please, need more—” he groans, lost in the motions.
Kiyoomi kisses him like there’s no tomorrow — he doesn’t think he’ll last through this anyway, there’s no point of the concept of tomorrow — desperately tasting Atsumu’s blood on his own tongue, on Atsumu’s tongue, a fervent wet performance of a kiss dizzying them both. When he pulls back slightly, tears are wettening the dark cloth on Atsumu’s eyes, sliding down onto his cheekbones.
Kiyoomi leans forward to taste them, licking the stray drops straight off his face. Atsumu growls and starts to maniacally utter Kiyoomi’s name. “Omi, Omi ohmygod, Omi, fuck Omi fuck, fuck fuck—”
And he tumbles over the edge, fingertips digging so hard onto Kiyoomi’s hip bones that he can feel the bruises forming, and Kiyoomi leans down to suck Atsumu’s blood on his chest, a moaning and mewling mess himself. “Atsumu, god you’re so beautiful, oh, oh fuck—”
He shivers so hard through his orgasm that his teeth rattle, come spurting onto both of their chests. Atsumu’s still groaning, still trying to fuck him deeper in his climax, and Kiyoomi can swear he’s seeing stars behind his eyelids. He pries his eyes open for a second, their breaths mingled and heavy.
He bends down, licks his own come on Atsumu’s chest, drawing a line from the spot to Atsumu’s blood and swallowing both of them together.
Atsumu slows down and stops completely with a pathetic moan, eyes still blindfolded and his breaths heavy and wet. Kiyoomi collapses on top of him, limbs intertwined, souls hand to hand.
He hardly holds himself back from whispering an I love you.
He kisses Atsumu’s lips with exhaustion and adoration instead.
✵
There are many things Kiyoomi knows about himself.
Although if he’s being disturbingly honest, he would accept that there are more pieces of him nobody’s seen before. Although he knows more about himself now, he’s sure the dark and webbed corners of his emotions and thoughts are still there.
Now, he knows how Atsumu tastes. His blood, his come, his mouth, his sweat. He knows how Atsumu looks when he loses coherency completely, succumbing into the tsunami of pleasure and pain.
And there is a new scene he hasn’t seen before: As he watches a volleyball being slammed directly onto Atsumu’s nose with the ruthless power of Ushijima Wakatoshi in slow-motion, his gut swims in liquid fear and anticipation, reminding him of a view he’s been trying to forget.
The initial blood drops on the floor and the satellites are not that bad. Kiyoomi tries to focus on them and breathe regularly.
There is yelling, worried footsteps, Coach running towards them with a doctor on his side. Kiyoomi slowly raises his gaze, fearsome of what he’s going to see, of what is going to haunt him again.
Atsumu doesn’t even try to cup his nose this time; the blood gushes freely, dripping at a scarily fast pace onto his lips, into his mouth, onto his chin, even crawling down his neck. Kiyoomi remembers kissing him when that happened. He remembers tasting him, collecting the blood, pooling it on his own tongue. He remembers whispering to Atsumu that he’s beautiful, every day, with or without blood. But a different kind of beautiful with blood. He remembers Atsumu grinning at him.
This time, Bokuto offers him his arm, slowly walking towards the sideline with the doctor and Foster right next to them. Kiyoomi watches the trail of crimson Atsumu leaves behind, and he wonders how little he actually knows. How much would suffice for him to keep Atsumu in his hands? How much would help them go back in time and move over the hurdles a relationship is?
How much was he supposed to know to avoid losing Atsumu altogether after months of love and effort?
He didn’t know. He still doesn’t know much.
He rips his gaze from the bloody path Atsumu walks on, and turns his face towards the court once again, inhaling, feeling the broken shards sink into him where his heart used to be.
And maybe he’ll never know enough.