Chapter Text
In ancient Greek religion,
Ananke
(Greek, from the common noun ἀνάγκη, "force, constraint, necessity")
is the
personification of inevitability, compulsion and necessity.
She appears often in poetry, as Simonides writes:
"Even the gods don’t fight against
ananke".
There are many things Kiyoomi knows about himself.
If he’s being honest, he would claim to know almost all of it. His favorite color is the dark, lush green he sees on his way home, the evergreen leaves. He likes his coffee black and hot, right off the stove. His guilty pleasure is eating a whole pack of gummy bears in one sitting. He never liked tuna, to be honest. He doesn’t like fish at all, actually, which is in sharp contrast with living on the small island of Japan, but well.
He hates beer. He doesn’t like people who walk slowly in hallways. He doesn’t like birthday celebrations. He likes to choke his partners sexually and watch them beg. His handwriting is eloquent and graceful. He doesn’t like fantasy fiction at all. He is bisexual.
He knows almost all of it.
But then, of course, karma turns up in the form of Miya Atsumu and flips his world on its axis so easily that Kiyoomi wonders how little he actually knows.
✵
Training starts in late August, and Kiyoomi has given himself a well-deserved break to prepare himself for the season to come. He’s read the books on his to-read list, cleaned his apartment thoroughly from top to bottom, even started an art history course he’s been putting off for so long.
Somehow, Miya Atsumu manages to fuck this up in a record-breaking three weeks.
Kiyoomi readies himself for a spike, glancing at Atsumu to make sure they line up while taking his three steps to set himself up and explode off the polished wooden planks to slam the ball onto them, and that’s exactly when he sees the blood dripping from Atsumu’s nose.
It starts as one blackish-red drop collecting mass until it can give in to gravity and drip further down. Atsumu’s face is taut in focus, eyes on the ball and his fingertips featherlight with the utmost control he commands on the court every day.
Kiyoomi absolutely loses his whereabouts and timing mid-jump, his internal strings tugging a very strange, excited melody that leaves him breathless, watching the red draw a gentle line from Atsumu’s nose to his lips.
Atsumu frowns at him, completely unaware of the blood trickling down his nose. It’s wet; a dark, dirty red; thick but insistent on dripping down, and down, until it reaches the delicious arc of Atsumu’s cupid’s bow. Kiyoomi hears the ball fall to the ground.
When the liquid reaches the crevice of his upper lip, Atsumu’s tongue darts out reflexively to taste and understand what it is, and Kiyoomi feels his chest compress before the vision of Atsumu tasting his own blood — now creeping down his lips and his chin, slowly splashing onto the floor and creating satellite specks around it. Atsumu swipes his nose with the back of his hand with a frown, glancing at the crimson double streaks across his skin.
Kiyoomi swallows the saliva pooling on his tongue.
He doesn’t know what’s showing on his face, but Atsumu looks at him and flashes a grin.
Fuck. He has blood in his teeth.
Fuck. Kiyoomi wants to taste it.
What the fuck?
Kiyoomi takes an involuntary step back, and Atsumu reaches out for him with his striped hand, the other one trying to cup his nose while the blood drips down between his fingers and slowly stains his chin. “Omi-Omi — it’s okay, it’s just aspirin—”
But Kiyoomi feels the untimely heat stirring in his gut and the sparks through his groin and turns around to speed-walk to the locker rooms. It’s all a blur while he locks himself into a stall with his half-erection. He only regains the concept of time and place at some point while staring at the white tiles in horror.
What the fuck was that?
He tries to regulate his breathing, waits until his heartbeat is something more manageable, and only then opens the stall door to step out.
Unfortunately, when he reaches the washbasins Atsumu is also in the locker room, angling his neck forward for the blood to flow more freely, leaning forward on the bench. He looks at Kiyoomi through his eyelashes, a napkin stained bright crimson under his nose. Their eyes meet through the mirror. Kiyoomi’s absolutely not positive he won’t have another erection about this.
Whatever this is.
He feels the stirring in his gut with horror once again. Atsumu frowns. “Y’okay?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi breathes, trying to control his heartbeat as it continues accelerating. He can survive this. By distracting Atsumu. He has to distract Atsumu. The last thing he needs is Atsumu noticing his reaction. “Do you need help?”
“Nah, we hafta wait for it to bleed out,” Atsumu says, shrugging. “Ya sure yer okay?”
“Yes,” Kiyoomi replies determinedly, hoping his poker face is enough to evade this situation, but for that he also needs to divert Atsumu with something he’s interested in. And if there is one thing Miya Atsumu loves, it’s himself. “Why did it happen all of a sudden?”
“It’s the seasonal shift,” Atsumu explains, much less enthusiastically than Kiyoomi expected, taking the napkin away for a second to see if it needs to be changed. Kiyoomi swallows thickly looking at the bright red marks soaked into the paper towel. “I’ve got migraines and they go absolutely nuts when the seasons change, and the only thing that works for me is aspirin.”
“Oh,” is all Kiyoomi can say. Of course, he knows aspirin is a blood thinner, but he never saw someone take enough to make themselves bleed.
Must be pretty bad, the migraines.
“Ya squeamish?” Atsumu asks, muffled under the napkin.
“No,” Kiyoomi blurts out, then curses at himself.
“Good,” Atsumu replies with a nod. “Cause it’s gonna happen often, just so ya know.”
Well.
Kiyoomi inhales deeply through his nose despite panic rising inside him, takes one last look at him through the mirror, and walks towards the court to resume his training.
Things could’ve been so much easier if he just said yes.
✵
No less than three days later, Atsumu bleeds again, evident to the team when Bokuto runs over to call for the coach. Kiyoomi is the closest one to Atsumu at the moment — and it would be weird to not check on him, so he walks over, definitely not to see Atsumu bleeding, definitely not to be a fucking creep about it or anything of that sort — just to make sure he doesn’t bleed so much that he faints, is the thing. But when he sees Atsumu staring at him with those big, golden eyes through thick eyelashes, crimson dripping down onto his lips and his nimble fingers, down to the floor and onto one of Atsumu’s polished white sneakers, Kiyoomi takes a sharp breath in.
“Omi, ya sure yer not squeamish?” Atsumu teases with a bloody grin.
Please stop smiling like that.
“Maybe you should cut back on the aspirin,” Kiyoomi replies instead.
Atsumu pouts. It is a familiar, annoying, possibly cute expression that would normally make Kiyoomi roll his eyes or maybe want to kiss him on the cheek — the thought of which he never lets linger in his mind. But now… the still-wet bloodstains crawling down Atsumu’s chin, his gums in sharp contrast with the pearly white of his teeth and the bright red of the liquid, the blood-covered spit-slicked lips shining brightly. The view is disturbingly enticing. Luring.
Devastating.
It makes Kiyoomi want to ruin Atsumu, make him sob, and taste his blood mixed with his tears.
He clenches his fists, gritting his teeth so hard that it’s audible, even if only to him. Coach arrives at a relaxed pace.
“Locker room,” he nudges with a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. “How long are you going to stay on the medication?”
“A month or so,” Atsumu replies, swiping away the continuous blood with the back of his hand.
His hands. They’re covered in blood. There are the initial drips, dried rusty-red on Atsumu’s palm, followed by stains starting at his fingertips before snaking bright rivulets down his fingers into his palm, even down his wrist in two, three thin columns. The floor is a mess and the back of Atsumu’s hands are filled with repeated strokes of red due to his attempts to wipe it away.
Kiyoomi wants to lick him clean.
His disastrous train of thought is interrupted when Coach Foster waves a hand in front of him. Kiyoomi startles. “Yes, Coach?”
“Escort Atsumu to the locker room, please,” Foster instructs. “Make sure he doesn’t faint before you return.”
Kiyoomi nods wordlessly, wondering why he’s sickly excited to be alone with Atsumu in this state.
“Can you walk by yourself?”
“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, still a hand cupped under his nose, the palm filling slowly with blood. Kiyoomi’s mouth is producing excess saliva. He swallows thickly.
They make their way to the locker room where Atsumu sits down and Kiyoomi hands him a stack of napkins. Atsumu rests on the bench with a groan, the sound vibrating through Kiyoomi’s oversensitive nerves and reverberating in his groin. He can feel his own blood pooling… there.
This was a bad idea. He needs to get out. He clears his throat and turns away from Atsumu, leaning onto a wall, staring at himself in the mirror across from him. “Tell me when you’re okay.”
Atsumu nods tiredly, and Kiyoomi tries to not to let his eyes divert and land on the stained napkin. Tries to focus on his breathing instead.
“Y’can go, Omi-kun,” Atsumu informs him a minute after they fall into a silence.
Well, the problem right now is, Kiyoomi cannot ‘go’, not if he doesn’t want to hand Atsumu ammunition to make fun of him for the rest of their lives. Not when he’s this hard.
He almost doesn’t hear Atsumu standing up to walk towards the washbasins, but when he does, it’s already too late. Atsumu abruptly stops in front of the mirror, his eyes doing a double take at Kiyoomi’s erection visible under the loose shorts and not-nearly-compressive-enough compression shorts beneath them.
He doesn’t seem to notice the blood slowly dripping down his nose.
“Omi-kun,” he breathes, reflexively licking his upper lip to get rid of the blood, leaving Kiyoomi an even more cursed mess. “S’everythin’ alright?”
Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut, cursing at all deities he knows in one silent exhale, feeling his frown leaving permanent indents on his forehead. When he opens his eyes again, Atsumu is still staring at him from the mirror. The eye contact feels like lightning.
Atsumu turns around and faces him directly, the blood slowly dripping into his mouth from between parted lips.
Kiyoomi doesn’t say a word.
The expression on Atsumu’s face is curious, but at the same time his eyes sparkle with something that Kiyoomi doesn’t dare try to decipher. Four heavy steps bring Atsumu face to face with Kiyoomi and he tilts his chin upwards, a threatening and playful glint to his eyes. His graceful fingers reach forward, hovering above Kiyoomi’s hip bones, and Kiyoomi suddenly feels his mouth going dry.
“This for me, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu’s voice is gravelly, threatening. Kiyoomi feels his heart flutter in his chest. They’re too close, he can almost smell Atsumu’s cologne— “S’there anythin’ ya wanna tell me?”
Kiyoomi takes a sharp breath in, trapping the air in his lungs until he has to exhale the burn. “Not really.”
He refuses to acknowledge his shaking voice.
“Huh,” Atsumu says profoundly, but given the situation, Kiyoomi cannot think of a better response. Atsumu leans in further, his nose almost bumping Kiyoomi’s. “Thought ya were hidin’ somethin’.”
“Hiding something,” Kiyoomi echoes weakly.
One drop of blood lands on Kiyoomi’s right hand standing between them. Warm and wet.
Kiyoomi stifles a gasp.
“Somethin’ dirty, I feel like,” Atsumu says through a grin, bright white clashing with red in the expression. “Ya afraid of what ya like?”
That somehow snaps the last chord of self-restraint Kiyoomi has been trying so hard to preserve. He roughly grips Atsumu’s chin and licks the dark red contours on Atsumu’s upper lip. His tongue is swift and so sure, but it doesn’t prepare him for the taste — metallic, a hue of something sweet and bitter rotating on his tongue.
He lets go of Atsumu’s stunned face and licks the drop on his right hand, looking directly into the wide, golden eyes.
He lets out a smirk. “Do I look afraid?”
And he walks out.
✵
Fuck, fuck, what the fuck —
The taste of iron lingers on Kiyoomi’s palate throughout training. He fails spectacularly at not trying to think about how he’s tasting Atsumu in his mouth, in the most intimate way he ever could. The salt lingers on his taste buds; his tongue instinctually searches more for the iron flavor and that ridiculous sweetness Atsumu quite literally carries in his blood. The sweat, wet and warm and salty on Atsumu’s cupid bow, his spit-shiny lips, ornate with thin rivulets of blood despite the napkin, Atsumu’s taste in his mouth, Atsumu’s taste in his mouth.
He can’t stop thinking about it.
He doesn’t see Atsumu leave. He doesn’t see anyone leave, actually — grabbing his bag, he dashes out as soon as practice is complete, surprising Hinata with his lack of showering (which he compensates for with a meticulous amount of sanitizer applied on every visible patch of skin, save for the top of his right hand).
When he gets home, he turns to the only people he can: strangers on the internet.
“I like to lick my partner’s wounds,” he reads out loud, scrolling through a blog. “It feels intimate. I love the texture and the taste of blood, and we sometimes play with knives, of course risk aware but within safe, sane and con-”
He snaps the laptop shut and groans into his palms.
✵
It’s not the end of the world. It’s not.
It’s not.
But then, why does he feel so guilty and disgusted with himself?
It feels wrong, to lick the blood off someone’s face. When put into words, it sounds even more fucked up and miserable. It’s fucked up. He’s fucked up.
He knows Atsumu’s blood is supposedly clean. They go through regular testing. He knows ingesting such a little amount of blood will not change anything. Health and sanitation-wise, he’s fine. It should be fine.
But is it seriously fine to like the taste of blood? Kiyoomi isn’t thinking about purchasing generic bags of blood and drinking them — it’s Atsumu that makes it… special. Can it really be okay to want to lick a specific someone clean if they got a cut? To want to watch them bleed? To feel it on his own skin?
He should seek help. This cannot be normal.
But at the very base of it, nothing surpasses the grandiose and all-encompassing feeling of triumph . The look on Atsumu’s face with his blood on Kiyoomi’s tongue. Kiyoomi feels like he conquered him, like he owns Atsumu in the most basic, most instinctual way possible. Primal. Like an animal. Like he marked Atsumu. Like Atsumu is his property now.
And he wants to mark Atsumu more.
He’s fucked up.
✵
Shockingly, Atsumu doesn’t pester him with questions about what happened. Kiyoomi definitely expects it, but it never comes. Instead, Atsumu avoids eye contact with him for a while, walking quietly to the locker room whenever he bleeds. It takes all of Kiyoomi’s power to not follow him.
Their practices go as usual, and Kiyoomi learns how to control his body reacting to Atsumu in general. To everything about him. But especially the… thing.
He looks away as soon as Atsumu waves to Coach, signaling he’s leaving for the locker room, and focuses on eight deep inhales and exhales. He fails sometimes, searching for the bittersweet metallic taste on his tongue, but the whole process works. By ‘works’, he means that he doesn’t become an unintelligible babbling mess while watching Atsumu stain his path back to the locker room with a trail of ruby droplets.
After exactly three weeks and four days, Atsumu has not shown signs of bleeding for three days in a row. Kiyoomi knows, because this is his testing process to determine if he’s going to hell or super hell. There are no other options for someone as fucked up as him.
Kiyoomi exhales roughly while walking to the locker rooms. He grabs his necessities, turns the corner and tries to see which shower cubicle hasn’t been used today.
He’s unprepared as someone shoves him face-first into the cubicle he’s standing in front of. His momentum carries him forward until his chest slams directly onto the button on the wall, triggering a spray of freezing water above him.
He turns around furiously to see who pranked him, but instead of an empty space he finds Atsumu.
More specifically, Atsumu’s blood dripping down onto his chin, diluted and slowly washed away with the icy water.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Kiyoomi hisses, his voice getting weaker as Atsumu leans forward.
He whispers into Kiyoomi’s ear. “Do it again.”
Kiyoomi inhales sharply, a shiver running down his spine. He wants to ask, do what again, but they both know the answer. The subject has been lingering unspoken and unacknowledged between them for almost a month now.
“Get out,” Kiyoomi furiously whispers. If someone walks in right now and notices two men, fully clothed, thoroughly soaked under the shower, it will be impossible to explain.
Atsumu instead kicks the door closed, and reaches to turn the lock.
He leans on the door with his hands at his back on the doorknob, his white t-shirt stained with pink-red spots, thoroughly wet and sticking to his skin.
Hooded eyes, predatory. “Do it again.”
Too close. He’s too close, and Kiyoomi cannot stop watching the blood being washed away and staining the white t-shirt and the grey shorts and he wants to —
“Don’t you think it’s wrong?”
Atsumu blinks methodically, tilting his head to the side as if he doesn’t understand the question. Then he grins.
Fuck.
“Is it really that wrong if both of us want it so badly?”
Fuck.
He takes a step, his whole chest leaning onto Kiyoomi’s, his nose against Kiyoomi’s neck. A new gush of red flows from his nose, trickling down Kiyoomi’s neck and inciting a spine-rattling shiver. Atsumu brings his lips to exactly where he just bled all over him and licks a long, hungry column on Kiyoomi’s neck, tasting him.
And his own blood.
Before Kiyoomi can moan, Atsumu sinks his canine teeth into the vulnerable flesh and sucks, capillaries breaking and a bruise forming. He sucks until Kiyoomi lets out a broken sobbing sound, then slowly lifts his chin and whispers into Kiyoomi’s ear. “I taste good, but I would prefer ya tastin’ me on my skin.”
God, what is it about Atsumu that makes Kiyoomi lose all his control and may the gods forgive him but — he grabs Atsumu’s chin and kisses him roughly.
It lacks all the elegance and finesse one would expect from a first kiss, but honestly that’s not what either of them are looking for. Kiyoomi groans into Atsumu’s mouth when he tastes the bittersweet metal on his tongue. Kiyoomi can smell the blood, taste it, feel it warming up his own lips, hear Atsumu’s soft panting through his nose. He licks into the sugary iron taste, unable to hold himself back. His hands have a mind of their own, and he can’t stop grabbing Atsumu, letting his hands dance on the wet-fabric plane of his back, over one shoulder, across Atsumu’s jaw. The water is much warmer now, dripping down their foreheads and into their eyes, and Kiyoomi blindly reaches out more and more, relying solely on touch and taste. He settles with having his hands on either side of Atsumu’s neck to pull him deeper into the kiss, and draws back only to breathe. He gasps, sucking in air as quickly as possible before diving back into Atsumu’s mouth, slamming himself back onto the wall, dragging Atsumu alongside, hips grinding.
Kiyoomi’s tongue dances around in Atsumu’s warm mouth, trying to explore it all, but with every drop of blood finding its way onto his taste buds, complete exploration seems like a far goal. He tries not to be jealous of the shower water for stealing drops from him before he can kiss and taste them. Fails. He hums into Atsumu’s mouth, biting his bottom lip and earning a gasp, and separates from him to place wet, pink kisses alongside Atsumu’s jawline and the deliciously thick column of muscle on the side of his neck.
He pulls back. Atsumu blinks at him dazedly through wet eyelashes, his hair sticking to his scalp in the most ridiculous way possible. His nose seems to be bleeding even more.
Fuck. Right. The heat from the shower is making the blood flow even easier.
“Take off your clothes,” Kiyoomi whispers, too afraid that his voice will crack if he speaks any louder. It’s just for the sake of their clothes, avoiding any more staining than they already have. It’s practicality. Nothing more.
Atsumu grins again, that goddamn clash of colors, and Kiyoomi cannot hold back anymore — he leans in and licks Atsumu’s mouth from bottom lip to teeth to top, and nibbles on Atsumu’s upper lip, savoring the warmth and the taste.
“I said take off your clothes,” he murmurs, the animal instincts taking over inside him. Atsumu is so delicious like this, all stained and shivering under Kiyoomi’s lips. Kiyoomi wants to touch him.
Atsumu steps back, eyes wide and mouth agape. He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it off over his head in a single motion, and bends down to take his boxers and shorts off.
He’s hard.
And God, Kiyoomi wants to taste every patch of skin he’s seeing.
He doesn’t hesitate, taking off his own t-shirt as well and removing his shorts and underwear swiftly. Atsumu doesn’t skip a beat and in one second he’s in full contact with Kiyoomi under the warm spray, kissing him like he breathes through the contact.
Their erections are stuck between the smooth planes of their stomachs. When Atsumu lifts his leg to hook a heel behind Kiyoomi’s knee, the friction is enough to make Kiyoomi moan.
“Shh,” Atsumu warns him, putting a slightly bloody finger to Kiyoomi’s lips. When they hold their breaths for a second, they hear Bokuto singing a few cubicles apart and Hinata bickering with Inunaki about something. Nobody seems to notice. Okay.
“You have no idea,” Atsumu murmurs, leaning his forehead onto Kiyoomi’s neck and speaking to the crook above Kiyoomi’s collarbone, “how long I’ve been wantin’ to do this to ya, Omi-Omi.”
Before Kiyoomi can ask what he means, Atsumu drops to his knees and blinks at him between offensively long eyelashes. Kiyoomi’s body blocks Atsumu’s face from the shower’s spray, but his nosebleed doesn’t calm down. Must be the warmth and humidity in the air. Kiyoomi opens his mouth to warn —
Atsumu takes the tip of Kiyoomi’s cock into his mouth and doesn’t hesitate until his nose touches Kiyoomi’s groin. Kiyoomi gasps, holding the shower shelf for dear life, and watches as Atsumu pulls his head back devastatingly slowly, never breaking eye contact and leaving trails of blood on Kiyoomi’s cock.
Holy fucking shit.
It definitely isn't normal for this to be so hot. Right? Right? Kiyoomi’s brain short-circuits however, all thoughts of right and wrong and healthy and crazy right down the drain, and he grabs Atsumu’s hair with his left hand to violently yank him forward again.
He feels feral.
He fucks Atsumu’s mouth at a brutal pace, the hot spray on his back and Atsumu’s tears streaming down his cheeks, diluting the blood spread around his mouth and cleaning a path down his cheek. Kiyoomi’s groin has smears of red, and his cock is temporarily dotted with drops and streaks of dark ruby until Atsumu moves forward to lick him clean once again. He gags occasionally, choking on dick and blood, but not giving up in the slightest.
Oh god, Kiyoomi’s not going to last.
He groans into his bicep, his arm gripping Atsumu’s shoulder so hard that he’s sure his fingertips are leaving bruises, and stutters. “Atsumu— shit, Atsumu— slow down, fuck—”
Atsumu hums instead with Kiyoomi’s cock deep in his throat, and Kiyoomi throws his head back so roughly that he feels the ache vibrate through his whole body. It takes four, five long sweeps of Atsumu’s mouth on Kiyoomi’s cock before Kiyoomi bites his own bicep so hard that he breaks the skin and comes right down Atsumu’s throat. Stars dance before his screwed-shut eyes. Kiyoomi can swear he’s feeling the pump of his own heart throughout all his limbs.
Atsumu swallows it whole and draws back only to milk the last of Kiyoomi’s orgasm right onto his own face. He stops after Kiyoomi’s legs start shaking, his body jerking involuntarily away from the contact.
On his knees; his cheeks, mouth and nose smeared red, strings of come ornating his cheekbones and nose, he stares up into Kiyoomi’s eyes.
He seems dreamy. Sated.
Kiyoomi lets his head hang down, his death grip on the shower shelf loosening and leaving an ache in his fingers.
“Oh,” Atsumu whispers. Kiyoomi lifts his eyes to see Atsumu fixated on Kiyoomi’s right bicep. “Yer bleedin’.”
Atsumu stands up, Kiyoomi tiredly raising his head to watch him. The blond reaches forward and gently presses his fingertip on the bite wound, smearing the blood in small circles over his inner bicep. He leans in, pressing his lips around the bite, small, patterned licks for each indent of teeth, then sucking gently. Kiyoomi fails to suppress the shiver creeping through his limbs, and curses silently.
Atsumu proceeds to lick his bicep clean, one hand gentle around Kiyoomi’s neck, the other on his elbow. The wound doesn’t stop bleeding altogether, small scarlet drops rising to the surface.
Kiyoomi reaches out with his left hand, picking up a few drops on his finger. Atsumu notices the movement and pulls back, staring at him wide-eyed and dazzled. Kiyoomi stares at the glistening ruby on his fingertip. Looks back at Atsumu again. Atsumu opens his mouth.
It is terrifyingly erotic in the way a knife on his throat feels dangerous. Atsumu’s lips close around his index finger, sucking on the blood offered to him, closing his eyes and humming at the taste. Kiyoomi wonders what he tastes.
After sucking on Kiyoomi’s finger, Atsumu pulls back to stare him in the eye. “Did that feel good, Omi-kun?”
Kiyoomi just leans in to taste himself from Atsumu’s mouth.
Atsumu’s own taste is mixed up with a smoky, metallic flavor; it reminds Kiyoomi of cigarettes on the roof between rusted metal alloy columns, the railings squeaking under his forearms when he leans forward. He groans when he tastes Atsumu’s blood dripping down from his nose, their scarlet liquids mixing on their tongues. Atsumu greedily licks into his mouth to take back Kiyoomi’s blood as much as he can.
When they break apart for breaths Atsumu pulls back, a satisfied look in his eyes. “Good. Let’s clean up.”
Kiyoomi cannot object at all. He steps aside and tiredly watches as Atsumu rinses his body and his face, his nose still furiously bleeding. Atsumu wraps a towel around his waist, presses a bloody kiss against Kiyoomi’s lips, and rests his balled-up t-shirt under his nose afterwards. “Later, Omi-Omi.”
✵
“Later” turns out to be shorter than two days.
Atsumu grabs his right bicep as soon as the first blood drop hits the floor and practically drags him into the locker rooms. Meian yells something about making sure Atsumu is okay, but Kiyoomi can’t hear it from his heart pounding in his ears.
Atsumu walks into the broom closet and Kiyoomi follows, captivated. In the span of a heart beat, Kiyoomi’s back meets the sharp edge of the wooden shelves. Atsumu slams their lips together hard and for the second time in as many days, Kiyoomi isn’t sure whose blood he’s tasting. He already knows that Atsumu has ruined him. Knows he’ll never feel anything like this again. Probably ever.
Atsumu grabs his waist and yanks him towards himself, grinding onto him in the tiny space available to them. Kiyoomi groans into the kiss. This has to be a record for getting so hard in such a short timespan.
Atsumu pulls back to breathe, and they stare at each other in the light sneaking into the closet from under the door, breathing heavily. Atsumu doesn’t withdraw his hands from Kiyoomi’s waist, and nor does Kiyoomi take his hands off of Atsumu’s shoulders. Atsumu leans in, his forehead leaning against Kiyoomi’s, and exhales roughly. “How is this so hot?”
“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi murmurs, his lips centimeters away from Atsumu’s, words dizzy in his mouth. “It might kill me.”
“It’s quite literally killin’ me,” Atsumu teases. “All the blood flowin’ can at least not end up on the floor. Better on yer tongue.”
“Gladly,” Kiyoomi breathes, leaning in to kiss Atsumu clean. He kitten-licks the corner of his lips, places soft, open-mouthed kisses on his mouth, on his cheeks, on his nose. He feels bewildered from the feeling of conquering him. The taste on his palate. Atsumu’s growl when he bites into the soft flesh of his neck.
“Needta haveya, like, yesterday,” Atsumu groans, leaning back. Something rattles on the shelves, and they both freeze at the sound, but when it stills, Kiyoomi smirks.
“Not here,” he states with determination. “Showers.”
“And who’s toppin’?”
Kiyoomi’s hands snake around Atsumu’s waist, his groin pressing hard onto Atsumu’s. He tilts his head, grips his waist tightly, his voice a low threat. “This is already mine.”
He licks a stripe across Atsumu’s lips, drawing more blood into his mouth. His hands slide down Atsumu’s back, fingers pressing hard, and grips his ass. “Why wouldn’t this be mine too?”
Atsumu tilts his chin up, a spark dancing in his eyes. “Dontcha think I earned a treat after that wonderful blowjob I gave?”
“Who says you didn’t earn a treat?” Kiyoomi murmurs. He leans in to kiss Atsumu again and playfully licks into his mouth. “But I choose what it is.”
He leaves the cabinet to wash his face clean from all the blood.
✵
There’s still a good hour and a half until the practice is over. They are relatively safe.
That would be a worry for Kiyoomi under normal circumstances, but right now all he can think about is why Atsumu has lube in his gym bag, and why he doesn’t have condoms (“Ain’t no need for condoms to finger yerself in the shower, Omi-kun!”) and the fact that he’s about to hit it raw.
And then the fact that he’s thrilled about it.
Under normal circumstances this would be a big no-no for Kiyoomi. His logical mind keeps repeating that, even as he clearly knows they’re both clean, but his irrational tendencies always urge him to use protection no matter what.
Both sides fall silent under the animalistic feelings Atsumu brings out.
All Kiyoomi can think about is how Atsumu will feel, so tight and hell-hot around him, and what kind of noises he’s going to make while blood seeps consistently from his nose. He wants to hear Atsumu scream, somewhere between pain and pleasure. He wants to make Atsumu beg him, to submit to him totally, a bloody mess. Under his dominance and power. His chest painted in his own blood. Kiyoomi’s groin stained vermillion again.
What a view.
He distractedly walks over to Foster. “Coach, Atsumu’s not feeling great. I’ll be accompanying him for a while.”
“That kid,” Coach Foster groans, watching their libero receive a knifesharp line hit. “Good, Inunaki!”
Then he turns to Kiyoomi. “Stay with him, and tell him he can take the rest of the week off. I’m tired of him bleeding all over the court.”
Kiyoomi nods and turns around, acidic excitement boiling in his stomach, and tries not to straight up run to the showers.
✵
Atsumu’s under the hot spray of the shower, his hair swept to the side.
He’s completely naked.
As soon as Kiyoomi steps into the cubicle Atsumu slams him onto the wall, his kiss desperate and ravenous. Kiyoomi receives it breathlessly, his mind drawing blanks and blurry from lust. He can already taste his blood on his tongue. He’s going to lose it.
Atsumu yanks at Kiyoomi’s boxers, the only thing he didn’t take off — weirdly awkward to step naked into a cubicle where you know you’re about to have sex with a teammate for the first time, which is ridiculous because Kiyoomi’s hard for Atsumu’s blood — but Kiyoomi’s quick and nimble. He holds Atsumu’s hands, slams him onto the opposite cubicle wall instead, and fixes his hands way above his head. “You were talking about a treat?”
Atsumu wriggles, clearly trying to avoid the pressure, but Kiyoomi is a hitter and Atsumu is a setter — shoulder and arm strength are simply advantages for Kiyoomi. And then there’s the height difference.
It’s slight, but he enjoys looking down at Atsumu.
“Whaddaya gonna do, make me beg?” Atsumu asks breathlessly when he understands Kiyoomi’s not going to cave in or let go.
Kiyoomi tilts his head, his wet curls detaching from his forehead. “Would be lovely to watch.”
He sees Atsumu’s eyes widen, his capillaries relaxed under the hot spray, the blood seeping down his nose once again. Atsumu swallows audibly. “And yer not gonna let me go until I beg.”
“Are you considering being a brat?” Kiyoomi asks, his voice husky.
Atsumu swallows once again, eyes wide, shaking his head furiously. It’s alluring to see him so panicked about disobeying Kiyoomi. “Can I…” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat, chin tilted up. Staring right into Kiyoomi’s eyes. “Can I suck your cock?”
Kiyoomi smirks. What a wonderful way to watch Atsumu’s proud, blood-stricken mouth move like that, asking for permission. “It suits you. Begging.”
Atsumu looks flustered.
“But you forgot a word.”
Atsumu frowns slightly, staring at Kiyoomi’s lips like he’s in a haze, and Kiyoomi smiles lopsidedly. “What do we say when we want something from someone, Atsumu?”
“Please,” Atsumu whispers, his focus still on Kiyoomi’s mouth.
“Eyes up here.”
Atsumu slowly raises his gaze. “Please.”
“Full sentence.”
Atsumu reflexively licks the new blood on his lips, making Kiyoomi bite his own. “Can I suck your cock, please?”
“Good,” Kiyoomi says, and simply lets him go, stepping back.
Atsumu doesn’t fiddle. He kneels immediately, removing the wet boxers, sliding them down Kiyoomi’s legs. He places a kiss on his thigh, looks up, and then bites.
Kiyoomi groans, his hands fisting in Atsumu’s hair. He can see the blood stain on his leg, slowly being washed away by the shower. Atsumu flings the boxers to the side and kisses the deep hip cuts of Kiyoomi’s honed body. He teases for a while, soft kisses and nibbles slowly dancing around Kiyoomi’s cock, already hard.
When he kitten-licks Kiyoomi’s balls, Kiyoomi yanks his hair, drawing a painted grunt out of the blond man. “You were given permission for a specific something.”
Atsumu follows uncharacteristically obediently, taking the tip of his cock into his mouth, eyes on Kiyoomi’s: desperate, pathetic and hungry. He closes his eyes and hums, swirling the tip on his tongue. Kiyoomi lets his head thud on the wall behind his back and groans.
The shower stops, its time up. Neither of them reaches to restart it.
Atsumu bobs forward and back, licking Kiyoomi’s cock and cleaning up the trails of blood, but Kiyoomi’s groin is already stained and there’s no cleaning that — not that he will complain about it. Atsumu whines, one hand reaching behind him to probably insert a finger. Kiyoomi yanks Atsumu’s head back as soon as he notices what he’s attempting, leaving thick lines of blood on his cock. “What do you want?”
Atsumu’s eyes are glossy, looking up at him. “You. Inside me.”
“Clearer words, Atsumu.”
“Fuck me.” Atsumu looks like he’s about to cry, cheeks flushed, mouth red. “God, please, fuck me.”
“Turn around,” Kiyoomi orders, suddenly yanking Atsumu upwards and bending him over to reveal his ass, the man’s forearms on the wall.
“I already… stretched myself,” Atsumu says with slight embarrassment, somewhat turning to look at Kiyoomi. “While I was waiting.”
“Greedy,” Kiyoomi comments, raising a brow and smacking Atsumu’s ass. Atsumu growls, his forehead hitting the wall. “Greedy little slut.”
That’s all the warning he gives before he pours the lube standing in the shower holder, and inserts two fingers at once.
Atsumu groans, clenching around him, pleasured moans echoing through the shower.
“Quiet,” Kiyoomi murmurs, curling his fingers inside him.
Atsumu lets out a sob-like sound, desperate and pathetic.
He really is stretched.
Kiyoomi pulls his fingers out.
Kiyoomi looks at his own cock, trying to think of whether he really should do this, but all he can feel is a nasty, crude excitement. His cock still has drops and streaks of blood on it. He almost blacks out when he pushes the tip in, seeing the blood smear around Atsumu’s rim.
Atsumu has his own blood inside his ass.
It’s devastating.
He gradually but continuously pushes his length in, and Atsumu growls when Kiyoomi’s flat against his ass. Kiyoomi pulls back a little, seeing that the blood on his groin has smeared around Atsumu’s cheeks, and bites his lip as hard as he can to avoid outright yelling. This is too hot. So fucking hot that it’s sick. Downright obscene.
He starts fucking him, his hips at an unforgiving rhythm, relishing in the way Atsumu feels as tight and hot and good as he feared him to be. Atsumu claws at the plastic wall. He whines, growls, moans — utterly broken down, devoid of logic and dignity.
“Omi-Omi,” he stutters, turning his glossy gaze to him as much as his neck allows, his blood dripping onto his shoulder, drawing a small riverline onto his back. “Please… harder.”
Kiyoomi smirks, right hand fisting in Atsumu’s hair and yanking his head backwards. He hears Atsumu gasp. “Anything for you, pretty baby.”
He thrusts so forcefully that Atsumu yells, the voice muffled by Kiyoomi’s hand instantly covering his mouth and pulling him back. He fucks him viciously, as revenge for ruining Kiyoomi like this. Fuck. His blood is trailing down Kiyoomi’s fingers, warm, wet. Human.
“Please….” Atsumu sobs, muffled. “Please… touch…”
“Yourself?” Kiyoomi asks, and groans while he thrusts into him harder and deeper. Atsumu has tears prickling his eyes, and he nods with a muffled groan. “Do it.”
Atsumu momentarily loses balance when he withdraws one of his hands from the wall and touches his long-neglected cock. He sighs in pleasure onto Kiyoomi’s palm, and Kiyoomi takes the cue to fuck him more violently.
The lewd sounds of wet skin lapping at each other fills the shower, and Kiyoomi can see that Atsumu’s ass is bloody — so is his groin. He’s fucking Atsumu with his own blood, and when he thinks that he’s going to come inside him… it’s too much. The thought of filling Atsumu, having him dripping with a mixture of blood and semen, begging for more — it nearly sends Kiyoomi over the edge.
It’s too atrociously good to be true.
Atsumu starts hiccuping and growling, signaling that he’s close. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and feels Atsumu: wet, tight, hell-hot around him. He pulls his hand back to place it on Atsumu’s waist and piston into him faster and stronger.
Atsumu breaks down as he comes in sobs, legs trembling, tears rolling down his face. He mutters Kiyoomi’s name like he’s under a spell, like it’s the only word he knows. Like Kiyoomi is his only salvation.
When he regains some coherency, he looks back at Kiyoomi with pleading eyes, fervent and utterly desperate, blood gushing from his nose over his shoulder, travelling into the crook of his spine down his back. “Come inside me, please, please I beg you—”
Kiyoomi growls with his chest squeezing on itself at the request, reaching one hand forward to yank Atsumu’s hair again, and leans forward to his ear. “Anything for my pretty little slut.”
And when he comes in world-shattering waves and blinding lights, he hears Atsumu sob in relief. He slows down a little with broken breaths, dizzy and dazed, and licks the line of blood on Atsumu’s spine, closing his eyes and humming at the divine taste.
He withdraws himself after three, four more thrusts.
Blood and come slowly dribble down from Atsumu’s ass, a circular red stain spread over his cheeks. It’s filthy. Lewd. Absolutely scandalous.
And, fuck, Kiyoomi wants to taste.
He doesn’t waste the opportunity.
✵
Two days later, Kiyoomi is on his knees.
He flatly licks Atsumu’s hole with utmost patience, a morbid joy in his chest at hearing Atsumu sob from overstimulation — he’s been hanging on well, actually, considering Kiyoomi has been rimming him for more than thirty minutes now. He takes his time alternating between heavy, prude licks and fucking Atsumu with his tongue and playing with his balls to bring him as close to the edge as possible.
Atsumu’s thighs are shaking deliciously. Violently, to be more accurate.
“Do you think you earned it?” Kiyoomi asks, his mouth on the tiny beauty mark on Atsumu’s left ass cheek. He places a wet kiss and then bites down.
Hard.
“Please,” Atsumu whines, barely holding on.
Kiyoomi stands up from his aching knees, reaching over for the lube.
“I’ve never been so glad I’ve bled,” Atsumu murmurs dazedly, completely lost in his own thoughts.
Kiyoomi glances at the ceiling above them and silently agrees.
✵
One week later, while they both sit on the flooded bathroom floor, Atsumu laughs exhaustedly. “Aren’t we a little too old to be fuckin’ around in showers, Omi-kun?”
Kiyoomi is basking in the afterglow, completely lost in the haze. It takes an unreal amount of power and will to raise his head from where it’s resting on the tile wall. “Do you suggest we do it in the locker room?”
Atsumu rolls his eyes, then a bloody grin on his face. “I suggest we ruin yer bedsheets.”
Kiyoomi raises a brow. Imagining the view, he unconsciously bites his lip, cock fattening up slightly at the thought despite the intensity of his orgasm only minutes before.
Atsumu’s grin widens, crimson and white.
✵
In the next few days, it becomes routine for Atsumu to call out for Kiyoomi whenever he bleeds. Bokuto objects to this the third time it happens.
“Omi’s the only actual one who can take care of wounds, ya idiot!” Atsumu growls, muffled due to the ball of tissue paper under his nose.
Bokuto shrugs, finding it believable enough. Probably. Hopefully.
“Let’s get you inside,” Kiyoomi says, offering his arm to Atsumu.
Atsumu smirks, barely visible, and murmurs back. “Let’s get you inside.”
Kiyoomi tries his best not to gasp, and he covers it with a cough.
✵
Twelve days after the two of them start fucking, Kiyoomi takes him home.
Atsumu moves like he’s always been in this apartment, which is unexpected because he’s only been here once as a shitfaced mess in Bokuto’s arms most of the time. He knows where the bedroom is, although Kiyoomi learns that way later — the first time they step into Kiyoomi’s place, Atsumu slams him onto the closet doors and they don’t even make it halfway to the bedroom before Atsumu rides him, on the carpet, in the hallway, letting out moans and groans loud enough to alert the neighbors.
Blood drips from his chin to Kiyoomi’s abdomen, and he pulls Atsumu’s face closer to him to be able to lick his face clean of the blood while Atsumu rides him. It’s an understatement to call the taste combined with the sensation “exquisite”.
When Atsumu comes first and decides to finish Kiyoomi off with a blowjob, he makes sure to lick the semen and blood all clean from Kiyoomi’s stomach.
Kiyoomi can’t complain. Not at all.
✵
Eight days later, Kiyoomi lingers for the first time.
They’re on his bed, thoroughly spent after a second round which utterly cracked Kiyoomi’s wooden headboard — which didn’t stop them — and for the first time since Kiyoomi first saw Atsumu’s crimson blood draw that gentle, magical line from his nostril to his cupid’s bow, he doesn’t rush.
Instead, he lays with Atsumu in his arms, the metallic, savory taste of blood on his tongue, kissing Atsumu’s vermillion-smeared cheeks and chin. Atsumu’s breaths are fast and shallow, still reeling from his own third orgasm — the first merely from being fingered, the second from a blowjob, the third from Kiyoomi railing him until they broke the headboard — and he snuggles into the embrace just a little more.
Kiyoomi smiles freely, knowing that Atsumu won’t see it, and tightens his hold on him.
✵
Exactly thirty two days after Kiyoomi first tasted Atsumu’s blood, Atsumu falls asleep in his bed.
Of course he falls asleep in his bed.
And of course Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to wake him up, so they end up waking together a few hours later, limbs intertwined and Atsumu’s head on Kiyoomi’s chest, dried blood on his lips and chin.
Kiyoomi takes him to the shower gently, washes the remnants of their day off Atsumu’s skin, wraps him in a blanket and lets him fall asleep on his shoulder on the sofa.