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Kiyoomi has never kissed anyone. This is because he has never wanted to kiss anyone, too busy being disgusted by the idea of it, because really, what is so appealing about swapping spit with someone? He, of course, has heard about the act from other people, not to mention in TV shows, movies, books, and he’s tried to understand the feeling that they all speak of, but he just… doesn’t get it. He’s heard about Motoya’s kisses, even Hinata and Bokuto’s with their respective partners – all of which were not learnt of by choice – but by far the man whose sexual endeavours he knows most about is Miya Atsumu.
It is well-known by anyone who has ever met or even heard of Miya that he engages in sex, and everything of that sort, for fun. This fact has been proven on many occasions whenever he is at a club, party, or really just any high-energy event that does not include volleyball or something else that he deems to be as serious.
Due to this… hobby… of his, Kiyoomi is well-versed in the sex-capades of his teammate; it also means that he has heard from several people what a good kisser he is – which Kiyoomi has really never cared about, of course… for anyone except Miya.
And while he usually avoids the – awful, disgusting, frustrating – thought that he has the hots for him, Kiyoomi is pretty drunk right now and Miya is wearing some very tight ripped jeans, and his shirt is only buttoned almost half-way. And deep down, no matter how little he has ever cared about kissing, he is a weak man who is unfortunately physically attracted to Miya Atsumu.
Plus, Coach told the two of them to try to get along better, and well, making out with him definitely counts, right?
So, he downs his drink in an attempt to drown the last of his self-respect and goes in search of the man who won them tonight’s match, because he really is fed up with hearing about everyone else’s kisses when he’s never experienced even one. He finds his target alone in the kitchen refilling his drink and when he hears Kiyoomi’s steps, he lifts his head.
“Omi-kun,” Miya greets, lowering his cup from his mouth. He runs his tongue over his lip, and well, Kiyoomi knows what it’s like to be turned on, but he swears nothing does it like Miya. “Y’know, I can’t believe you only come to Bokkun’s when he throws parties – this is when it’s at its messiest,” he says with a grin.
“At parties, it’s socially acceptable to drink,” he shrugs, and it makes a laugh burst out of Miya. A shiver runs down his spine.
“I guess you’re right about that one,” he says, laughter still shaking his shoulders. He pushes his hand through his hair. “Gods, I’m fucked. How ‘bout you?”
Not yet. “I wouldn’t put it so… crassly, but yeah, I’m pretty fucked.”
“Damn. So, are ya—”
“Kiss me.” Wow. Smooth.
Miya chokes, then smacks at his chest, trying to catch his breath again. “What?” his voice is weaker than he’s ever heard it.
Kiyoomi shifts on his feet, avoiding the wide eyes that are burning holes into him. He knows his face is probably – no, definitely – flushed red, but he doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about what a confession this is. “I’ve never kissed anyone.”
Miya clears his throat again. “And you want me to be your first?” His voice still cracks. Why is he so flustered over this? Surely Kiyoomi should be the embarrassed one in this situation.
He rolls his eyes. “Some annoying part of me is trusting you to teach me how. Apparently, you’re good at it.” He hesitates, then: “Plus, you’re hot.” Curse his drunk brain.
Miya slowly sets his drink down, eyes fixed on the cup as if he’s questioning its contents. He holds onto the counter behind him, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly with the movement. “Didn’t know you were into guys, Omi-Omi.”
“Very. Now kiss me… or I’ll find someone else.” He definitely won’t find someone else; he has a feeling that somehow, this is his least embarrassing option. Also, as previously noted, his most attractive option.
Miya studies him for a moment, then shrugs and reaches out for him, gently taking hold of his wrist. Even his touch is hot, like there’s lava running through his veins. “You’ve gotta say the magic word, Omi,” he teases, looking at his lips, and Kiyoomi feels the words on his skin.
“No.” He doesn’t do too well at keeping his voice steady even just for that short syllable.
“Come ooon, Kiyoomi,” Miya sings, voice low and breathy. “Please kiss me, Atsumu.”
The butterflies in his stomach impatiently coax out the words, his pride having long-since dissipated under a few shots of Grey Goose. “Please kiss me, Miya.”
Miya hums, and when he speaks, his lips brush against Kiyoomi’s own. “Good enough.” Kiyoomi’s eyes flutter shut, and he pushes forward. He feels Miya smile against his mouth, and he can tell it’s that cocky, annoying—
“Loosen up; it’s okay,” he says after a moment, placing his hand against his jaw and tilting Kiyoomi’s head. “I’ll stop whenever you want me to.” He kisses him again, moving his mouth a little this time, and he tries to follow Miya’s lead, unfamiliar to the movements other than what he’s seen on TV. It takes him a bit to gain confidence, but he doesn’t make fun of him, doesn’t laugh at him, just directs him with soft murmurs here and there. It’s… nice. He’s nice.
He pulls away and Kiyoomi opens his eyes.
“Okay?” he asks, lips pinker than normal. He nods, head swimming, sucked in by honey-brown irises.
“Are you this careful with everyone?” the breathlessness of his voice shocks even himself.
“You’re not everyone,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing ever. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with that, so he takes a step forward and places his hands on his shoulders. He leans back in, and it’s even better this time. He feels a hand slide into the hair at the back of his head and it pushes him in closer, hot skin against his own cold skin. Miya Atsumu. Miya Atsumu is an excellent kisser. Miya Atsumu is gentle. Miya Atsumu is licking against his lip. Miya Atsumu is an excellent kisser. Miya—
“Atsumu,” he breathes out when he tugs at his hair, heat rushing through his cheeks, and Atsumu takes the opportunity to fully push his tongue into Kiyoomi’s mouth, deepening the kiss. Holy Gods.
His grip tightens on his shoulders and when he feels Atsumu begin to hesitantly pull away, like he thinks it’s a sign of nerves, he pushes himself somehow closer, wrapping his arms behind his neck instead to tell him it’s okay. “Keep going,” he whispers. He feels more than hears Atsumu’s resulting laugh, a low rumble that vibrates through his body, twists his stomach.
“So needy,” he hums.
“Shut up and kiss me. I’ll… follow your lead.”
Atsumu doesn’t respond this time, just presses his lips to his again, more force behind it this time, and it feels right in a way that he hasn’t heard anyone else say about Atsumu. It’s right in the way that Kiyoomi swears they fit perfectly together, even with his lack of experience. It’s right in the way that Atsumu knows exactly what to do even though they have – unfortunately – never been in this situation before with each other. He tugs at his hair, strokes his jaw with his thumb, and then he drops his hand to his waist, pinkie brushing against the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and he nips at his lip, and Kiyoomi moans, legs turning to jelly, bones no longer existent.
“Woah, careful,” Atsumu smirks, hold tightening around his waist, and suddenly he’s being lifted onto the kitchen counter; he knows Atsumu’s a professional athlete, that he himself is one, but fuck he’s strong.
He ducks his head and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, face unbelievably hot.
“Flustered?” he grins, sliding a hand through his hair, back and forth, rubbing his thumb on his waist, back and forth. He glares at him, but it doesn’t seem to be very successful. He’s pretty sure his face is bright red.
“For someone so stubborn, you sure are shy when it comes to kissin’, Omi-kun,” he teases, and Kiyoomi wants to wipe that stupid grin off his face. If there’s one thing Atsumu never fails to do, it’s rile him up. He takes a deep breath, lifts his head to look straight at him, and reaches for him, slipping his fingers over the waistband of those damned ripped jeans and pulls him as close as possible, revelling in the feeling of his skin against his fingertips, the feeling of goosebumps. “Are you going to stop talking?” One of Atsumu’s hands slip from his waist to his thigh, eyes hungry, and the jelly of his bones spreads to his head.
“Make me, asshole.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t even have time to think before he’s surging forward, desperate to be kissing Atsumu again, and he’d be embarrassed if this wasn’t so fucking good. He tilts his head up, Atsumu taller than him for once, and grabs a fistful of his hair, tugging it to pull him closer, closer. He realises the way that every time he gasps for air, he goes right back in; relishes the hot breaths on his lips, in his mouth. He’s weak. His everything feels like goop, and when Atsumu’s hand inches up his thigh, his gasp of air is swallowed down like it’s sugar, delicious and— intoxicating. That’s what Miya Atsumu is: intoxicating. He’s sucking him in, making him weak at the knees, making his stomach burn in the best way possible, making him dizzy. His nails dig into the skin of his back and it rips a moan right out of his throat, one that is somehow a mix of Atsu and just plain noise, pure pleasure.
He really fucking gets it now. He gets why everyone talks so highly of kissing. But… in truth, Kiyoomi doesn’t think he wants to do this with anyone else. He likes that Atsumu manages to be so gentle yet so passionate at the same time. He likes that he’s patient with him, even outside of kissing, that he’s surprisingly kind and listens and helps. It’s all been quite a shock, seeing as he’s a massive prick.
He really likes doing this with Atsumu. He doesn’t even want to think about anyone else really, not even Wakatoshi, who he had a crush on for years in his late teens. Atsumu pulls back but before Kiyoomi can whine at his absence, he’s nipping at his neck, and oh. Oh.
His breath escapes him all in one and he buries face in soft blonde hair as Atsumu works at his neck, biting carefully at the skin and then smoothing it over with his tongue. He’s coming apart at the seams, his whole body begging for more, more, more.
“Atsu—” his voice cracks when Atsumu pulls away, lips carefully leaving his skin. He looks just as taken apart as he does.
“You good?” he looks worried, like he actually, really cares; it pulls at him more than anything else he’s done or said.
He nods, panting for air. “I—” he swallows. “I can’t have sex with you right now.” He doesn’t really know where this train of thought came from.
He blinks. “That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to hook up with me.” He lets go of his thigh and moves his hand back to his face, pushing his hair behind his ear and looking at him like no one else ever has.
“I’m not—” he pushes the rest of his hair away from his eyes, confusion in his bones because he thinks he wants to, but…. “I’m not ready.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow, some sort of mix between confusion and concern in them. “Woah wait,” he says, holding onto his hand. “As much as people think it, Omi, I’m not that much of an asshole, so don’t worry about that shit. We can just enjoy this.”
We. Kiyoomi isn’t sure if his heart flutters from anxiety or… something else. Both, probably. “I’ve never had sex. Obviously,” he continues, unable to quell the frustrating urge to explain himself. “I wasn’t really interested to begin with, and then when I was… or when I started to entertain the idea, I suppose… I don’t know. It feels a bit like everyone’s always telling me that I should just get it over with, and I don’t feel like….” He sighs, his chest feeling like a deflating balloon with a hole in it. “Even Bokuto told me I could use the spare room when I said I was looking for you.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows have smoothed out now, but he looks almost dumbfounded, like he thinks Kiyoomi’s being stupid. Maybe he is.
“Wha— no. Ignore them all, Omi, especially Bokkun; he’s wasted.” He squeezes Kiyoomi’s hand then, almost like he’s pleading for him to really listen, and that bewilders him because why? “You… you don’t need to feel guilty for any of that shit, you know. Sex norms are dumb as fuck, and that’s comin’ from me. And you don’t ever need to have sex if you don’t want to, and it definitely doesn’t need to be with me tonight, so stop being stupid and give yourself a break.”
Gods. Miya Atsumu. Kind. Beautiful. Hot. Why does he want to have sex with him in the first place? Sex has always been completely off the table in his mind, so why is he thinking about it now? He knows Atsumu is unbelievably attractive; he now knows Atsumu is a fantastic kisser; but sex with him? It’s a thought that has never crossed his mind, not until now. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the questions it leaves in his brain.
Miya Atsumu has always brought out a different side of him. One that is always annoying to understand. He doesn’t want to think about this particular side of himself while intoxicated by both alcohol and Atsumu.
“Can you walk me home?”
His brow quirks in a funny way for a moment before it smooths back out, face melting into one of his usual lazy smiles as he puts his hands around his waist and lifts him up, carefully setting him down on the kitchen floor. The tiles are cold against his socked feet. “Come on, then.”
After that night, Kiyoomi somehow finds himself kissing Atsumu at every even semi-drunken oppurtunity; more of Bokuto’s parties of course, whenever they end up alone together, but also a couple of nights when the team manage to convince him to tag along to the club with them after some especially good games. It’s nice. It’s fun. Atsumu isn’t a dick when it comes to kissing, always allowing him to take it slow and always asking questions and making conversation before, between, and after the make-out sessions.
The first time they kiss at the club, it’s when Kiyoomi starts to get overwhelmed by all the noise, the lights, the people… he pushes himself through the crowds and when he gets outside, Atsumu is right there beside him, like he materialised out of thin air. They talk for a while, the latter helping him calm down, and then eventually he’s being pressed against the brick wall, tongue in his mouth, and miraculously, the taste of their different drinks mixing together doesn’t disgust him.
The second time, he’s a lot more comfortable, and somehow gets roped into dancing. Atsumu is far too good at it, knows too well how to work his hips, and Kiyoomi’s kissing him before he even really knows what he’s doing. He blames his lack of self-control on the fact that they are both incredibly drunk, celebrating the end of the season and their approaching break; it’s the one time when they don’t really have to watch their alcohol intake. It’s always felt like freedom in a weird way.
Now though, a few weeks into the break, Kiyoomi hasn’t seen Atsumu for a long time, and is standing outside, adjusting his grip on his bag and scanning the cars in the pick-up bay for the most annoying person he knows. When he’d left Osaka to go visit his family in Tokyo, he’d been expecting to see Bokuto on his return, waiting at the train station for him like the good friend he is. He didn’t expect the text from one Miya Atsumu ten minutes before he would be getting off the train, saying that Bokuto couldn’t make it anymore and as a result, had sent him instead.
Gods. After a weekend of being questioned on his relationship status – or lack thereof – Atsumu isn’t really the first person he’d wanted his newly raging sexual frustration to encounter. But of course, as usual, the universe loves fucking him over – just not in the way that he (thinks?) he’d prefer.
“Omi-kun!” calls a familiar voice. He turns to see Atsumu sticking his head out the driver’s seat of his car. He walks up to the car and opens the passenger door, trying to ignore the wave of relief that washes over him the second he does so, like he’s already back in his flat, curled up on his couch with a blanket.
Atsumu’s hair is a mess like he just woke up, and he’s wearing a tank top and, once again, tight jeans. That asshole knows his thighs are a work of the Gods, and he refuses to let anyone forget it.
“Have a good time? Good train ride?” Atsumu asks when he sits down and takes a deep breath, putting on his seatbelt.
He hesitates, staring out the windshield. “The train was fine. Thank you for picking me up.”
A quiet “ah” leaves his mouth and he taps his hands against the steering wheel. “It’s no problem. Want me to take you back to your apartment now?”
“Can we… go somewhere else first? Just somewhere quiet?” he asks, chest tight and begging him for fresh air. Atsumu stares at him for a moment, then nods, starting up the engine.
“Sure. I know a good place.”
He takes them to the edge of a hill off a quiet dirt track, void of any other cars or people. Kiyoomi loves it.
“Did you bring me here to murder me?” he asks, unbuckling his seat belt. “Here I thought we were friends.”
Atsumu laughs, pushing his chair back after parking. “Nah, not this time. This is where I go when I’m overwhelmed. No one ever comes here other than in the early mornings, like, to walk their dogs and stuff.” He turns his head to look at him. “It’s my special place.”
Oh. Kiyoomi turns to face him properly, staring at his sincere eyes, his soft smile. His special place? He brought him? His eyes sting, the exhaustion of the past couple weeks hitting him all at once. “Thank you.” He wills his voice to stay steady.
“Are you… okay?” he asks, checking to see if his seat will go any further back.
Am I okay? “I’m gay. So.”
“Oh.”
He sighs, pushing his hands into his eyes, then letting them flop down at his sides. “Sorry. It’s fine, really. I just… my family doesn’t really get it.”
“I’m sorry, Omi-kun. That’s shit.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t see them a lot, so I can avoid their poorly disguised homophobia, but… I have to go for birthdays.”
“Fuck ‘em,” he says. “Obviously they’re not worth shit. And, I don’t know if this is quite the right time, but uh…” he reaches behind Kiyoomi’s seat and comes back with a pretty black box with a bow, “happy belated birthday, Omi-Omi.”
What? “You didn’t need to—”
“Shut up and just open it.”
He takes the box from him, eyes flitting from it to Atsumu, then back to it. He lifts the lid as gently as he possibly can; inside is a small polaroid camera. He stares at him. He— what?
“You said you started to really like photography in uni, and since ya broke your last one, I thought you’d like a new one… now you can put your photos up on your wall or something,” he says, blushing, running a hand through his hair. Kiyoomi doesn’t even know what to say. He pulls the camera out, runs his fingers over it, opens the pack of polaroid paper Atsumu’s put in with it and inserts it.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, looking down at it. “I kind of want to hug you.”
A laugh bubbles out of him and the sound of it twists Kiyoomi’s insides. “It’s a bit of an awkward position, but you can.”
Kiyoomi looks back up at him and bites the inside of his lip, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “You know… one of the worst things about Tokyo was that I went to a club with Motoya and his sister. I kissed someone, but it wasn’t same.”
Atsumu raises an eyebrow, and Kiyoomi’s cheeks heat up. “The same?”
Gods. His attraction is even worse when he’s sober. And when he gives him adorable gifts. “As you.”
Atsumu’s other eyebrow jumps up. “Oh?” He could hear the grin in his voice even if he weren’t looking.
“Shut up,” he groans.
“Were you thinkin’ of me?” he teases. Kiyoomi glares at him.
“I don’t want to answer that.”
Atsumu hums and looks outside. “You know… I kinda missed you, Omi-kun. You were in Tokyo way too long.”
The air changes. He puffs out a shaky breath. “It makes sense that it’s been a while, since we are on break. But I do agree that I was away too long. I like it better here.”
“Here?”
He refuses to look at him. “Here.” Osaka. With the team. With you.
“Well, I think we could still find time to see each other, Omi; I mean, we’re friends after all.”
His chest feels fluttery. “I’m seeing you right now.”
Atsumu lets out a dramatic sigh. “But there’s a whole big space between us, Omi.” He gestures to the handbrake. Kiyoomi’s blood feels like soda that’s been shaken up, ready to burst out of his skin.
“How else would I sit any closer to you?”
His eyes flick down to his lap and Kiyoomi swallows. Fuck. This is why he tried to get Bokuto to pick him up.
“I think I know a good seat… if you don’t mind walkin’ round the car. Maybe then you could give me that hug.”
He doesn’t even have the self-control to wait at that, hands rushing to open his door and walking to the driver’s seat, trying not to feel embarrassed. He opens it and Atsumu grins up at him with lazy eyes and bed hair.
“Huh. Look at that,” he says, reaching out for him. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but climbs in, straddling him, and Atsumu’s hands instantly find his waist. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
He takes a deep breath and then leans forward, wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face there in a hug. “Thank you.”
“That’s okay.” He can feel the smile pulling at Atsumu’s cheek where it presses against his neck. “I’m sorry your family sucks ass.”
He shakes his head, then pulls away, reaching over to the passenger seat and grabbing the polaroid camera. “It’s okay. I always feel better when I get back to Osaka.” You’re just a bonus. “Smile,” he says, then, and snaps a picture of Atsumu, smiling up at him with soft features and messy hair. It feels private, like a side to him that other people don’t really get to see. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He lets the photo push its way out of the camera, then carefully places them both back onto the empty seat.
“You were definitely thinking of me when you kissed that guy. Were you imagining it was me?”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and leans back in close to him. “Wouldn’t have to if you’d just shut up and get on with it.”
He laughs. “Can do.” He presses his lips to his and it’s even better this time. He tastes of strawberry lip-balm and hums against his mouth like he enjoys whatever Kiyoomi tastes like. Maybe the blueberries he ate on the train; those flavours do go well together.
They’re more urgent this time, maybe because he’s been thinking about their make-out sessions all week, and it’s hot; it’s fire and passion and almost desperation. He knows he’s touch-starved, knows that if he’s not drunk then touch will be terrifying, uncharted territory. But he wants this. He doesn’t know why, but he does. He wants Atsumu to think he’s good, to want to keep having these make-out sessions for fun, to satiate their desire.
He doesn’t want to miss out anymore.
He wants to be good enough.
Atsumu pulls away. “Omi? You okay? You’re crazy tense.”
He blinks and realises he’s shaking. Fuck. “Yeah. Yes. I just, uh, I’m not good with touch. As in, I’m not used to it.” He sucks in the smell of strawberries, filling his lungs with it. “I don’t remember the last time someone touched me when I wasn’t drinking.”
He looks into his eyes, brows furrowed, and lifts his hand to his jaw. “I’m touching you now.”
He shivers and his grip on his shoulders tightens. “You are.” As far as sober Kiyoomi is concerned, Atsumu is unknown. He’s new. He’s… Atsumu.
“We’re not drinking.”
“We’re not.”
Atsumu’s eyes flick over his face, watching him, studying him, and although he doesn’t know what for, doesn’t know what he’s trying to find, he tries to open up his features, tries to let him discover whatever it is that he wants to. “I’ll go slow. Stop me when you need.” When. Not if.
He nods and Atsumu leans in, slow this time, gently joining their lips together like they’ve never done this before, like just a second ago they weren’t going at it. He holds his face like it’s porcelain, like he would do anything not to hurt him. Like he’s precious.
He lets out a shaky breath against his mouth and pushes closer, threading his fingers through his hair, and it’s soft. Atsumu’s lips, his touch, his breaths. Starting like this isn’t so scary, but it is different.
Trying to be brave, Kiyoomi slips his tongue past his lips again and tries to hold back the smile when Atsumu’s hold on his waist tightens and he feels his leg twitch beneath him. And he forgets. He forgets about his stupid family that doesn’t know what real love is, and he forgets about that awful kiss that he wished was Atsumu, and he forgets about the loss of touch that he hadn’t realised he’d missed. He deepens the kiss, comforted in the way Atsumu follows along, and when his fingers brush against the back of his neck, Atsumu gasps into his mouth, leg raising and pushing Kiyoomi somehow even closer to him. He grins.
“Sensitive?”
Atsumu, blushing a spectacular shade of red to match the strawberries he tastes of, pulls his waist against him. “Shut up, virgin.” He doesn’t even give him time to bite back then before he goes right back in, devouring him, making him feel weightless. His pinkie brushes against the skin of his back, and when Kiyoomi shivers in response, he instantly and carefully retracts it back to its position on his t-shirt, making Kiyoomi’s heart squeezes; even through all the passion, he’s still careful, minding his boundaries and making sure he’s comfortable. Kiyoomi’s losing his mind.
He reaches behind himself, grabs onto his hand, and places it on the skin beneath his shirt, hot against freezing. Atsumu laughs into his mouth, into his throat, and it’s addictive. Kiyoomi thinks of Bokuto’s party, sitting on the kitchen counter. He thinks of being pushed up against the wall outside the club. He thinks of sitting outside at another party, talking on the deck and then suddenly kissing before being rudely interrupted by Hinata. And he inwardly shrugs to himself, pulling his mouth away from Atsumu’s and going straight for his clearly sensitive neck.
“I thought you were nervous,” he jokes, but his voice is breathy and almost strangled, and it stirs so much in his stomach that he covers his mouth with his hand.
“I’m not anymore,” he mumbles against his skin. “Stop talking; you’re annoying.” He revels in the whine that escapes Atsumu’s throat when he bites at the soft, tanned skin, and he feels it against his fingers, feels nails dig into his back, holding on so tight. Hot, wet lips; sound vibrating against his hands like the resonant sting from a spike but over and over and drawn-out almost longer than he can take it. He feels his tongue. He loses himself.
His hand shoots down to his thigh – to steady himself… nothing more – and he sits up on his knees so that he’s above Atsumu rather than face level, and he kisses him like he has just as much practice as he does. Hands tug at hands, lips pull at lips, hair slips through fingers, and they don’t stop until the windows are steamed and Atsumu pulls away, panting.
“Okay. I’m gonna have to stop it this time cuz I’m losin’ my goddamn mind,” he says when Kiyoomi pulls at the hem of his shirt. He pulls away, trying to sit as straight as he can in this position, looking away from him. What does that mean? Is he not….
“Sorry.”
Atsumu, still trying to catch his breath, frowns for a second before recognition lights up his face with a laugh. “No, Kiyoomi, I mean…” he pushes a hand through his hair that’s gotten even messier than it was before, “I’m respecting your request of not having sex, but I’m a weak man, and I don’t really wanna… relieve myself in my car, if you know what I mean.”
Oh.
Oh.
Kiyoomi’s whole body lights on fire, somehow getting even hotter, and he forces himself not to cover his face with his hands. “Oh,” he squeaks, embarrassingly.
“Yeah,” he smirks, tracing circles on the skin of his back, over his spine. “How ‘bout I take ya home before this escalates any further?”
He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face and nods. “Good idea.” He looks at the quickly forming hickeys on his neck, lips raw.
“You’ll have to get off my lap, Omi,” he sings, running his fingers up and down now. Shit. He’s pretty sure his brain is completely void of anything but Atsumu.
He fumbles with the door and scrambles out the car, legs almost completely giving out under him. He hears his laughter as he walks around, whole body shaking.
“Damn, I might have to carry you up to your apartment, Omi-Omi,” he says when Kiyoomi sits down.
“Just drive,” he groans. His heart is still racing though.
After that day, something changes. Kiyoomi doesn’t know exactly what it is, or why, but… things are different. He meets up with Atsumu more often, and they don’t kiss every time, sometimes they don’t even touch, but weirdly, they feel closer. All of a sudden, Atsumu’s softer with him, inviting him to hang out at his apartment or to go on walks together, and it’s nice. It’s really fucking nice. The one time he tries to mention it to Motoya – he does not include the making out – he just calls him an idiot, which makes no sense, so he decides not to talk to him about it anymore.
It's a couple months or so after his and Atsumu’s first make-out session that Kiyoomi finally discovers why he is, in fact, an idiot.
He’s standing beside Atsumu in the doorway to his apartment, watching him wave goodbye to Bokuto and Hinata, the last of the team left after an evening of card games and revelry. Kiyoomi’s the only one still here now.
He shivers as Atsumu shuts the door, the cold night air blowing in and threatening to end his whole life. “It’s too cold,” he mumbles, clutching at his arms and glaring down at his shoes waiting to be put on. He doesn’t want to go yet; as much as he hates to admit it, he knows that he likes spending time with Atsumu.
“You’re always cold. Your skin’s literally never warm,” he says, turning to look at him, close in the small entryway.
“You’re always hot. You’re like a heated blanket,” he counters.
“Aw, you think I’m hot.”
“Shut up.”
Atsumu grins, watching him shiver, and then gestures towards the living room. “Wanna watch a movie?”
“Do you not want me to go?” he asks. It’s eleven already, and they’ve got practice tomorrow.
He shrugs. “Nah, it’s still early.”
Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow but nods hesitantly. Why not? “You have to get me a blanket, though.”
Atsumu laughs, grin spreading. “Can do, Omi.” They walk into the living room, left surprisingly tidy by their teammates – mostly thanks to himself and Meian – and Atsumu reaches into a small wicker basket before draping a blanket around him. “There we go. Adorable,” he hums.
He rolls his eyes but moves to sit beside him on the couch as he picks out a movie, feeling brave enough to lean his head on his shoulder. “Shut up.”
They’re about thirty minutes into the movie, a new one that they had randomly decided on, when Kiyoomi decides to speak his truth. “This is shit.”
Atsumu snorts, swinging an arm over the back of the couch. “It sure is boring.” He hesitates for a moment, then angles his body to look at him properly, and his voice drops. “We could do something more fun.”
He raises an eyebrow, but his stomach feels fuzzy at the hooded eyes gazing at him. “Like what?” his voice barely comes out. It’s embarrassing that after more than two months, he still gets this easily flustered. It’s only with Atsumu, as well.
Atsumu reaches his hand out and cups his chin with it, running his thumb against his bottom lip. His breath hitches. “Y’know, Omi, you’re fucking stunning,” he says, leaning in slightly. His other hand takes hold of his waist, pulling him in closer.
“Oh,” he responds, because seriously, he’s unbelievably flustered right now.
“Oh?” he laughs, low and breathy, hold tightening around his waist, thumb grazing the tip of his tongue. He breathes out, brain turning to mush.
“You’re like the sunrise,” the words slip out before he can even consider them. A blush spreads over Atsumu’s cheeks, so he continues. “And you’re hot. Really hot. Not even just in looks… like, you make me hot. Like I’m on fire.”
“The sunrise?”
He nods. “The sun in general. A star. Something that we couldn’t live without, even though it gets annoying sometimes.”
“Careful, Kiyoomi, or I’m gonna start thinking you like me,” he says, voice wobblier than he’s ever heard it. And that’s it. He knows, in this moment, why Motoya called him an idiot. Because he does like Atsumu. He thinks he might love him. That’s why he felt nothing with that man at the club, even though he kissed similarly to Atsumu… it wasn’t him. Kiyoomi wanted him. He wants him. Wants to be with him. Wants to go on drives with him to silence the world, wants to watch shit movies with him, wants to sit by his side on game nights with the team, and for his face to be the first he sees after long trips home from Tokyo. He wants it all, as long as it’s with Atsumu; if it’s him, he thinks he’d be comfortable with anything. It's not as much of a shock as he thought it would be.
“Maybe I do,” he murmurs, suddenly brave, suddenly daring, and he leans in closer, teasing him instead this time, pushing his thumb further into his mouth. He reaches up for Atsumu’s hand, lacing his fingers through his, pulling his hand close, closer. “You make me feel alive, Atsu.” He closes his mouth around his fingers, dragging his tongue across them, around them.
A shaky breath pushes through Atsumu’s lips, touch scorching Kiyoomi’s skin as his hand moves dangerously down his waist, “Yeah? You shouldn’t joke about things like that, you know.”
He pulls away briefly. “I know.” He wraps his lips, his tongue, around his index and middle finger, whole body alight; they bump against the back of his throat, and he moans. Atsumu’s hand grips at his hip, and his face. Gods, his face. Red, teeth biting at his lip, pupils blown.
“You’re a tease, Kiyoomi,” he breathes, holding onto him like his life depends on it. He pulls away, watching the spit lingering on his fingers.
“So are you, Atsumu.”
He laughs, but it’s high-pitched. “I guess you’re right about that,” he says, and just to prove his point, because even when he’s this flustered, he’s still a prick, he moves his fingers to his own mouth and swirls his tongue around them, eyes hooded and smirk on his face when Kiyoomi shivers, watching, helpless.
“Oh, my Gods,” he whispers, desperate, “just fucking kiss me already.” He swats his hand away and pushes their mouths together, not even bothered when his wet fingers go to his waist. It’s different than the other times, somehow, because it’s hot and wet and full of passion the second their lips slot together, but something about it is still soft, still careful. He’s too considerate.
Kiyoomi, hungry for more, slips his hands under Atsumu’s shirt, feeling the muscles shift, and when he runs them up to his chest, he marvels in the moan that it results in, swallowing it down like water, like he’s not had anything to drink in years. He pulls away, gasping for air, and swings his leg over him so that he’s sat on his lap, straddling him just as he had in the car. It’s way better here, though. “Take it off.”
“Huh?”
“Take your shirt off.”
Atsumu, lips pink and red, practically rips it off, throwing it to the floor, and Kiyoomi’s hands instantly find his chest again, tracing his fingers over the veins and muscles as they shift. Atsumu tries to kiss him again, but he pushes him away. He whines.
“Wait a minute,” he laughs, stomach fluttering like one huge butterfly. “I didn’t realise what I was missing in the locker-rooms. There’re too many people.”
He groans, impatient, and brings Kiyoomi’s hand to his mouth. He lets him kiss and lick at his fingers as he stares down at him, feels the tickle of a wet tongue against his skin. It’s intoxicating, addictive, and he’s desperate for more. To taste more, to feel more, to know his body as well as he does his brain and heart. He leans down and presses his mouth in a trail from his jaw to his chest, leaving hickeys and hot breaths, obsessed with the way that Atsumu’s hips buck against him when he does something right, obsessed with the vibrations of his moans against his fingers. And he wants it. He wants it so bad. He wants him so fucking bad.
Atsumu lets go of his fingers with a pop and grabs onto his t-shirt. “Kiyoomi,” he says, a low grumble that resonates through his whole body. He pulls away and lets him take it off. He thinks he would let him do anything. “My turn,” he mutters, pushing him back against the couch and dotting hickeys across his stomach, his chest, his neck, his jaw, and with the way he’s gripping at his thigh, he’s pretty sure he wants to put them there as well. The thought is exhilarating.
He tips his head back involuntarily and when a deep, guttural moan pushes out of his mouth, Atsumu’s there against him, pushing his tongue to his throat, devouring him. He melts, hands grabbing at his hair, breath against breath, and he wants Atsumu.
A shiver runs through him when he feels hands unbuttoning his jeans, fingers hurriedly pulling them down, and he helps to kick them off, lets Atsumu throw them wherever as he laughs into his mouth, lets him hold the bare skin of his thighs, rubbing his hands up and down them like he wants to know every inch of his body. Kiyoomi wants him to know every inch of his body. He wants to know everything there is to know about Atsumu, and he wants him to know everything there is to know about him. He wants it all. He wants everything and more, whatever he can have. He wants to hold him, to laugh with him, to understand him. He wants to spend whole days with him, whether they’re kissing or not. He just wants everything about him. He….
Oh.
OH.
Yeah, he’s definitely an idiot.
“Atsu, I—”
Atsumu pulls away instantly, worry washing over his features as if his hands weren’t just inching below the hem of his boxers, like he just knows that Kiyoomi’s started thinking too much. “Yeah? Did I take it too far? I’m sorry—”
He’s staring up at him, heart racing. “No!” he yelps, then swallows. His mouth is somehow both wet and dry. “I want to… with you. I just…” he sucks in a breath of air, and it tastes of him, “I think I’m in love with you.”
“Oh.”
He nods. “I’m sorry.”
“Wha—” Atsumu shakes his head and takes hold of his hands, lacing their fingers together, eyes shining, soft and full of emotion. “Don’t apologise, baby. Never apologise for that. I…” he leans forward and presses the softest kiss he ever has to his lips, “me too.”
He can’t stop himself from smiling. “Really?”
He smiles just as big. “Really.”
Kiyoomi surges forward and wraps his arms around him, unable to even put words to the feelings he’s experiencing. When he pulls away, Atsumu looks at him with honey-brown eyes and starts peppering kisses all over his face, and he feels ecstatic.
“Say it.”
He laughs, looks at him, hair falling around his face, and he’s beautiful. “I’m in love with you, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Desperately.”
He didn’t think he could blush any harder, but with the heat that spreads through his cheeks, he thinks he’s been proven wrong. “You didn’t have to add that last bit,” he mumbles, avoiding his gaze, but Atsumu doesn’t let him stay like that for long.
“You really are stunning,” he whispers then, breathless, and once again places a careful hand on his jaw, the other on his thigh, and leans in for a kiss, gentle and full of feeling. When Kiyoomi feels himself start to be lifted off the couch, mouths still connected, he just wraps his legs around his waist and lets himself be carried to the bedroom where he discovers more and more about Miya Atsumu; where they discover the everything that he had so craved. Desperately.
When they wake up the next morning, holding onto each other, circles being traced into Kiyoomi’s back, Atsumu laughs at him for being such a flustered mess all the time when all of this was his idea to begin with. Kiyoomi refuses to dignify his mockery with a response; unless, of course, he counts teasing him into his own flustered submission.
The truth is, yes, he may have started all this in a drunken stupor, but, as they share the latest in a long line of tender kisses, pressed closer than they ever have been before, Kiyoomi can’t help but think that Miya Atsumu might just be his happy ending.