Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Atsumu folds and unfolds the worn piece of paper in his hands absent-mindedly, smiling at the rainbow of colors and blend of messy kanji intersecting across the lines. He’s always been attached to material things. He’s an impulse buyer, has a lot of shitty souvenirs from trips he’s taken, but this single, tattered sheet from a notebook is his most prized possession.

‘Sentimental’, Motoya told him. ‘A hoarder’, Osamu said. Atsumu has never cared about anyone’s opinion. He loves this list, and he’s never getting rid of it.

He adds more to it every day, but the situation is getting dire. It’s starting to look like one of those pieces of preserved prehistoric writing, and at the rate Atsumu is going, they’re going to run out of space.

He could slow down, but there’s still so much he wants to do with Kiyoomi.

He asked Kiyoomi if they could laminate it, and Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, but Atsumu caught him on Amazon looking for home-laminating machines five minutes later. It’ll come in the mail next week. Kiyoomi threatened to frame it and put it on display in Atsumu’s living room, so whenever he had company, he would have to tell the story. Atsumu pointed out that Kiyoomi would be wherever he was, so he would have to be a part of the storytelling, but Kiyoomi said he would simply lock himself in the bedroom whenever it came up. Atsumu is ninety-eight percent sure Kiyoomi wouldn’t actually abandon him, but the two percent possibility that he would keeps him from agreeing to the idea of framing it.  

Atsumu will settle for keeping it for himself and staring at it often. 

It’s been a little over a month since Kiyoomi finally got a damn hint and asked Atsumu to be his boyfriend and Atsumu is still reeling from it. Atsumu was pretty sure that Kiyoomi liked him from the beginning, though he never dared to get cocky about it. Kiyoomi was, for all intents and purposes, his boyfriend, but to say something so presumptuous out loud would’ve surely angered some god, and Atsumu could have been smitten to cut his ego down a peg. It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take, so while he now argues that they’ve been technically dating for months, he’s fine with the anniversary date they do have. 

Atsumu adores Kiyoomi. Really, he didn’t know crushes could amount to this. Despite the whole virgin thing, Atsumu has had plenty of crushes. He was obsessed with the older lady with the shiny hair who worked at his favorite convenience store on the way home from school to the point where his teammates started making fun of him for having a thing for MILFs. His bisexual awakening was Taemin from Shinee, a fact which he has, of course, since told Kiyoomi. It delighted him to no end. He had the customary infatuation with Kita, as everyone on the Inarizaki Volleyball Club did, and even thought he might fight Osamu over Suna for a minute, until he got to know Suna and promptly let Osamu have him. 

Atsumu liked people. He was interested. He was just always...busy. He prioritized other things, and then when he saw his brother all doe-eyed and gooey in love, Atsumu thought it wouldn’t be worth it to be with anyone unless it was like that.

It’s like that with Kiyoomi. It is so like that with Kiyoomi, butterflies and all. The very first time Atsumu saw Kiyoomi, he felt like the main character in a shoujo manga, with stars in his eyes as he took in all 189 centimeters of man, and those two adorable moles hidden beneath a flop of curly black hair.

Atsumu tried to talk to him immediately, but Kiyoomi was a recluse back in the day and avoided him like the plague. When they did interact, Kiyoomi was prissy, petulant, pouty — but gorgeous, especially on the court. Atsumu spent a lot of time watching him, but while Kiyoomi was a bit of an emo kid who plastered himself to the corner of all rooms he entered, Atsumu wasn’t at his prime either. He was at that age where he thought being an asshole was cool, and so he and Kiyoomi’s interactions were limited to Atsumu taunting him, like an elementary school kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails and Kiyoomi glaring at him like he wanted to douse him in disinfectant.

Atsumu still went home and told Osamu all about him, then spent at least three days stalking his social media.

Back then, it was just another crush, one that Atsumu let fade to the background until years later, when Kiyoomi showed up to the Black Jackals open tryouts, somehow even prettier than he was in high school, and noticeably more personable. 

The physical attraction in the first few weeks was one thing, whew, but Atsumu really started to fall as Kiyoomi found his place within the team. He was still stiff and terribly awkward, but when he let his guard down, Atsumu began to notice all of the little things — the dry humor, the wide eyes when he was surprised, the clenched fist and small, smug smirk whenever he would get a service ace, the way he shook out his wrists after every play. 

Atsumu decided he was going to ask Kiyoomi on a date, eventually, maybe next year, after he’d had time to warm up, but then — yeah. That all happened. 

Funny how life works out. Atsumu was pining away, biding his time and scheming on how he could get Kiyoomi to go on a date with him and Kiyoomi just marched up to him and told him he would take all of his firsts, if he wanted. Then kissed him. Right in the middle of the gym. Atsumu thought he was experiencing some sort of fever dream, but no, those were Kiyoomi’s real words, his actual lips on Atsumu, pressing play on an unfolding story that neither of them could have ever prepared for.

The whole thing was a bit unconventional, but Atsumu sure as hell wasn’t going to question it.

“‘Samu,” he said, breathless, the moment Kiyoomi left him behind in the gym. He had wasted no time in dialing his brother’s number. “I’m gonna date Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

Osamu had laughed, short and mean, like he always did because he’s a bastard. “Good fuckin’ luck with that one.”

Atsumu is going to brag for the rest of his life. He’s going to torment Osamu with every detail of his relationship, to prove to him that he’s happier, that he’s winning.

And he is. Atsumu truly is winning, because he simply can’t get enough of Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi indulges him, again and again.

He tells Atsumu he’s insatiable, but he should try dating him. Kiyoomi is an addiction that Atsumu simply can’t get enough of. He’ll happily spend all of his free time tangled up with him; kissing, cuddling, and everything else that he’s missed out on for so long.

Turns out his teammates were right — Atsumu was missing out. Sex is great, but he’s one-hundred percent sure that it’s because he’s doing it with Kiyoomi. 

Atsumu turns the list over in his hands now, reading over words he’s looked at dozens of times at this point, tracing the little checkmarks and underlines and doodles while the shower runs in the background. 

One month — it’s such a short time in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like a lifetime, and Atsumu doesn’t care how corny that is. He’s waited forever for this, for someone to love him like he always saw in his parents, or with Osamu and Rintaro (and Motoya now, whom Atsumu is learning is loved just as much). 

Things haven’t changed too much from how he and Kiyoomi were, except now, neither of them goes home at night. Atsumu is grateful for that. He and Kiyoomi were playing the world’s most exhausting game of chicken — Atsumu endured endless teasing from Rintaro about his heavy eyebags, courtesy of forcing himself awake to spend just a little more time with Kiyoomi. It’s a relief, now, when Kiyoomi drags him into bed at 9PM. Atsumu sleeps sounder than he ever has.

They split their nights fifty-fifty, staying at Kiyoomi’s half the time and Atsumu’s the other. Atsumu’s shower has become a color-coded, cacophony of luscious conditioners, color-correcting shampoos (“I’m going to save you a lot of money at the hair salon,” Kiyoomi promised) and skin-care as far as the eye can see. Atsumu has a special pillow at Kiyoomi’s, and both of their closets are noticeably filled with clothes that don’t belong to them. 

Other than that, it’s all business as usual. They still binge-watch dramas, fall down YouTube holes, and Atsumu does most of the cooking. Kiyoomi does offer, to his credit, but Atsumu can only deep-clean a kitchen so many times in one week. He doesn’t mind anyway — Sakusa Kiyoomi, of all people, in his dining room, eating his food….it’s still surreal sometimes. 

He’s stuck between wanting to tell the entire world every single detail of their relationship, and keeping Kiyoomi all to himself. He settles for bits and pieces of it — bragging, really, in the form of Instagram posts that Osamu, Rintaro, Motoya and the entirety of the Black Jackals (and fuckin’ Tobio) talk shit on every time. Last week, Atsumu posted a picture of Kiyoomi sleeping on his lap and he was spammed with puke emojis from his so-called ‘friends’. 

So Atsumu has a tendency to overshare, but can it really be considered a bad habit when the whole open dialogue about his virginity led to winning him Kiyoomi? He doesn’t think so, and that’s why, despite knowing that he would be clowned, he came to the conclusion that he and Kiyoomi should just tell the team the whole truth about how they got together.

After that day in Tokyo, Atsumu and Kiyoomi were allowed to bask in their post-getting-their-shit-together bliss for all of three hours, in which Atsumu woke up with Kiyoomi curled into him like a six-foot-four cat, and thought of any and all excuses that he could offer to Coach Foster to get them out of practice. To his dismay, he had nothing.

Their time was running out. Neither of them had turned their phones back on since the initial onslaught of texts and somebody on the team would probably call the police to do a wellness check on them soon — or they’d get Bokuto to break down the door to Kiyoomi’s apartment, or Tomas could pick the lock, so many possibilities.  

“So, we gotta tell ‘em,” Atsumu groaned, playing with Kiyoomi’s fingers, waiting until the last possible minute to get out of bed. He liked touching Kiyoomi before, but those touches always felt daring, fleeting — now, he could hold him as long as he wanted. He could squeeze his hand and tap his fingernails and plant kisses on his knuckles and there would be no confusion in poor Kiyoomi’s heart about what it all meant.

Atsumu smiled to himself then, thinking — what an idiot. His idiot. 

“We could lie,” Kiyoomi suggested. “It’s not as if they’ll be able to figure it out on their own, or they would’ve already.”

Atsumu peeked at him in his peripheral vision. “Yer gonna lie?”

Kiyoomi is the worst liar. He practically tucked his tail between his legs and fled the scene when confronted with his feelings for Atsumu, a fact which he will not let Kiyoomi live down for the rest of his life. 

“I’m capable,” he grumbled. “But fine. You’re telling them though.”

“It was yer idea in the first place! You approached me!”

“It was your virginity.”

Atsumu groaned. “I think ya just wanna embarrass me in front of the team.”

“That’s a bonus.”

Atsumu had flopped backward dramatically, attempting to separate their hands. Kiyoomi just held onto him with a vice grip. Those freaky wrists are good for so many things. 

“If they make fun of me, will ya defend my honor?”

Kiyoomi tilted his head to the side, giving him a blank stare in response. “Sure,” he said, entirely unconvincing.

“I’m gonna break up with ya.”

“After all that effort?”

Damn him. Atsumu fell more in love with his prickly, sarcastic boyfriend with each passing moment. “Fine, but just so ya know, they’re gonna make fun of you too. You’re fair game now.”

“They’ll be too focused on you.” Kiyoomi sounded so sure of himself, and Atsumu couldn’t wait to prove him wrong.

He didn’t prove him wrong — not even a little bit. The moment Atsumu opened his mouth, before he could even get a damn word out, Inunaki was zeroing in on him like a homing missile while the rest of the team rushed to catch up. Atsumu caught Meian’s usual ‘here we fuckin’ go again’ face as he stayed behind, and then Hinata’s ‘oh my God, this is exciting!’ grin was front and center.

“How long has it been going on?” Inunaki demanded. “If it’s been more than a month, everyone owes me double.”

“Damn, ya really had faith in us,” Atsumu said. Maybe Inunaki should’ve been his favorite from the start. Screw Bokuto. 

“Easiest money I ever made,” Inunaki declared. “You’re all fools. They were literally playing footsie under the table during every happy hour.”

“Holding hands, actually,” Kiyoomi corrected him. Atsumu blanched, but the team barely processed the admission. They were working at a mile-a-minute, all airing months’ worth of theories.

“I thought Atsumu was just a touchy drunk,” Tomas groaned. 

“I changed my bet because there was no way he would’ve been able to keep quiet about it,” said Meian. “Atsumu tells us what he eats for breakfast every morning, and we were supposed to believe he was dating someone on the  team and not bursting at the seams to talk about it?”

Atsumu opened and closed his mouth. They were already coming for him, and he hadn’t even gotten to the embarrassing part yet! Next to him, Kiyoomi smirked, because he’s a brat and he knew what was coming, but he squeezed Atsumu’s hand too, so, forgiven. 

“Wait, so how long?” Inunaki repeated. “I need to collect from all these non-believers.”

“One day,” Kiyoomi answered, deadpan. Atsumu held back his smile.

“What? No way.” Inunaki shook his head. “There’s no way you two didn’t leave the bar early to fuck that night.”

“Hey, if they weren’t dating until yesterday, then you owe us our money back!” Hinata cried. “I had to borrow from Natsu for that!”

“You borrowed money from your high-school sister?” Tomas raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t act like you’re any better,” Bokuto interrupted. “I overheard you negotiating with Inunaki. He has to buy him drinks for the next year.”

“Hey, shut up. He’s about to have to buy me drinks if he was wrong.”

Atsumu and Kiyoomi watched this all unfold as if they were on a safari and the Jackals were actual wild animals fighting amongst themselves, but Atsumu knew with the next sentence, they would turn to him. 

“Well, I dunno what the rules were of yer bet, but we weren’t exactly datin’ until this weekend,” Atsumu grumbled, “But we...were doin’ other stuff.”

“Hookups count!” Inunaki shrieked. “Ha! You’re all my bitches! See you at the bar this weekend, Tomas!” 

“We weren’t hooking up,” Kiyoomi said, and everyone froze.

“If you weren’t dating, but you weren’t hooking up, but you were doing something...then what were you doing?” Hinata would be the one to ask the question of the hour. Atsumu sighed, held tight onto Kiyoomi’s hand and prepared to tell everyone how the weirdest situation of his life turned into a romance. 

“Uh, y'all remember the virginity conversation a few months back?”

“Only every day of my life,” Inunaki piped up. Atsumu changed his mind about him being the favorite. 

“Well, Omi here, uh, propositioned me about it.”

“Don’t use that word,” Kiyoomi sighed, but it was too late. The floodgates opened. Bokuto doubled over in laughter, slapping his knees like something out of a 1960’s slapstick comedy special. Inunaki and Tomas joined him, shrieking loudly enough to break the sound barrier. Meian and Barnes simply blinked, like they were trying to compute, and from somewhere across the court, Coach Foster cleared his throat loudly, like he was trying to cover up a chuckle.

“No you didn’t,” Hinata gasped. 

“Propositioned?” Barnes repeated. “Sakusa?”

“I wasn’t in my right state of mind,” Kiyoomi said.

“Oi, Omi! Yer supposed to be on my side, aren’t ya?!”

Kiyoomi put pressure on his hand, as if that was his sole responsibility, and damn him, it comforted Atsumu, so it counted. 

“Are you even a virgin, or did you just make that up so bleeding-heart Sakusa would take pity on you and help out with the problem?” Tomas accused. “This is insane.”

“Bleeding heart?” Kiyoomi asked. Atsumu could have laughed, but he chose to be supportive of his boyfriend figuring out that the team actually doesn’t think he’s a cold, blunt asshole like he tries to be, but rather a harmless cat with questionable social skills.

“Yeah, Omi-san, we know you’re secretly sweet! You love animals.”

“Animals, not people —”

“— anyway,” Inunaki interrupted. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, I was actually a virgin, ya dick.” 

“Hey, hey, Omi!” Bokuto boomed in between bouts of laughter. “I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“That’s kinda cute!” Hinata declared. “Omi-san is a good teammate.”

“Or conniving,” Tomas contemplated. 

“I was doing it to help him out,” Kiyoomi insisted. “I didn’t want him to go have sex with somebody awful. You know how he gets.”

“How do I get?!”

“Ah, we do know,” Hinata answered sagely. Atsumu felt very under attack.  

“You two are so weird,” Inuanki said, shaking his hands. “But I owe you dinner. I’m gonna buy a new gaming PC with this money. Thank you, and to everyone else — sucks to suck.”

“You shouldn’t even get the money,” Bokuto protested. “They weren’t technically hooking up. It was like a business transaction! That doesn’t even count.”

“If dicks were being touched in any capacity, it counts.”

“This entire conversation is so inappropriate,” Meian mumbled. He was ignored entirely.

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu huffed. “It counts. Besides, Omi liked me right away. He just kept actin’ like a lunatic. I mean, I was the virgin in the scenario, but Omi almost came in his pants every time —”

“Wow,” Kiyoomi interjected. “I’m going to tell them about the first time I gave you a —”

“Okay, time for practice to start!”

It’s been nearly four weeks since the confession, and the teasing hasn’t died down, but Atsumu doesn’t regret telling them. He grew up with Osamu, Aran, Rintaro, Akagi...he could teach a course on being clowned. Sure, he’s embarrassed the first few days, when Inunaki and Tomas wolf-whistle every time he and Kiyoomi are within fifteen feet of each other, but they grow bored of it, and it becomes an inside joke on the team and a funny story to tell when drunk.  

They don’t tell their families, obviously. Atsumu’s mom is cool, but not that cool and Kiyoomi’s parents would probably faint if they knew what their son got into. They get the sanitized version — Kiyoomi made it up, and Atsumu marveled about his talent for creative writing. 

(Motoya mentioned to Atsumu a few weeks back, in a loud whisper, that Kiyoomi used to write fan-fiction, and that’s why he’s such a good storyteller. Kiyoomi told Atsumu that Motoya was a pathological liar and to pay him no mind. Motoya sent him a link and Atsumu spent hours reading everything he wrote.)

In his Safe For Work tale, Kiyoomi asked Atsumu out after that happy hour — sweet, enough to make Atsumu’s parents coo and demand Kiyoomi come visit as soon as possible, and simple enough to placate Kiyoomi’s parents (though only after they asked for Atsumu’s damn life story — he half-expected them to ask for his blood type, or his high school transcripts). All-in-all, it wasn’t bad. They got the worst of it from Osamu, Suna and Motoya, who will never stop acting like they’re the heroes of the world for ‘getting them together.’ 

Atsumu hates them as a trio, but Motoya provided him with nonstop blackmail material on Kiyoomi, and the memes in the group chat vastly improved once Motoya was added to it, so he supposes they’re not all that bad. Atsumu truly, for once in his life, has no complaints.

“Are you writing something new?”

Atsumu startles as Kiyoomi comes up behind him. He hadn’t even heard the shower stop. Kiyoomi can probably silence things with his mind, because Atsumu swears he moves around noiselessly, like a damn panther. Atsumu is used to stomping feet and shouted greetings, so when he’s minding his business in the kitchen, humming along to the music in his earphones and Kiyoomi slinks up behind him to wrap a hand around his waist, it causes his chest to tighten in more ways than one. 

“No, just lookin’ at what we’ve still got,” he replies, turning to see Kiyoomi in one of his fancy, fluffy white towels wrapped around his waist. Atsumu drinks him in. Kiyoomi is trying to kill him — he’s always trying to kill him. He makes grabby hands at him, trying to yank him over and onto the couch. “Wanna cross somethin’ off right now?” 

“We have a team dinner in an hour.” Kiyoomi swats at him. In a strange twist of fate, it’s now Kiyoomi who drags them to team dinners and happy hours like he didn’t use to feign sick every time they were brought up. Atsumu is suddenly the one who begs to stay home, but to be fair, it’s because he has better things to do — like make out with Kiyoomi on the couch for hours. The tables have turned, alright. 

Kiyoomi comes close enough to lean over Atsumu’s shoulder and glances down at the list. “Pick something, and I’ll find an excuse to leave early so we can cross it off tonight.”

Now, there’s obviously no obligation to follow a schedule with the list. Atsumu blows Kiyoomi’s back out more nights than he doesn’t, but there’s still a certain thrill to picking something off and planning it. It’s the anticipation — it makes heat prickle under Atsumu’s skin. 

Atsumu grins. “You’re the best, Omi-Omi. Ya can’t tell the team I’m throwin’ up again, though. They won’t let me live that down!”

“It’s not my fault it’s entirely believable.”

“I can hold my liquor just fine!” 

Atsumu can’t. Just last weekend, Osamu, Rintaro and Motoya came to visit and Atsumu has zero recollection of anything that happened after 10PM. All he had to piece together the night is Rintaro’s horrifically embarrassing Instagram story, which featured Atsumu stumbling down the street, loudly whining about how he just missed his ‘Omiiiiii’ and that he wanted to see him, all the while Kiyoomi held his hand and refused to look anywhere near the camera. It ended up trending on various websites and Coach Foster made them do extra drills for the trouble. 

Though, Atsumu wouldn’t say it was trouble — his fangirls have doubled, absolutely endeared by the fact that he and Kiyoomi are together. They have a fan club. There’s video compilations of their games on YouTube mashed together with sappy romance songs like they’re a trailer for a K-drama. It’s half-terrifying, half-ego boosting.

“I’ll tell them we have an early morning,” Kiyoomi promises to placate him. “Go take a shower. You’re running out of time to do your hair.”

“Not even a little faith in me,” Atsumu huffs. He takes one last glance down at the list, locking into an item that Kiyoomi’s been giving him difficulty with. He puts it off, everytime, like he’s worried about how Atsumu will handle it. Tonight is the night. Atsumu has decided, but he might need some extra help getting Kiyoomi to agree. He’s always had luck with using other items to lead up to what he wants. With one last smile down at the list, he folds it up and sets it on the coffee table, suddenly excited to get ready and go out. 

-x-

The Black Jackals are social creatures, but they all rarely end up in one place together outside of practice. Bokuto and Hinata are the type of people who don’t need to reset — they’re always ready to go, always on the move with enthusiasm to spare, and the rest of the group inevitably struggles to keep up. Inunaki and Tomas overdo it every time they go out anywhere and end up skipping the following week. Meian and Barnes are ‘too old,’ and Atsumu and Kiyoomi are now ‘disgustingly domestic’ and have ‘forgotten the Bro Code.’ To remedy this fact, the team established monthly dinners. They’re not mandatory, but if anyone doesn’t show up without good reason it’s treated as a betrayal, and they will get every ball spiked at them at the following practice.

They take turns deciding on the place, with the only rule being that it can’t be overly swanky (since Bokuto will get too drunk and they’ll be banned from ever returning, and possibly end up on the six o’clock news); it has to have a wide variety of food options (Hinata tries out a new diet every few months — he’s paleo right now); and must have high standards of cleanliness (Kiyoomi, obviously). This time it was Inunaki’s turn, and his pick is more club than restaurant, with low-lighting and pounding bass that Atsumu bobs his head to unconsciously while they wait for their table. Music videos play on televisions surrounding the sleek booths that line the walls and they’re led to a table with a metal grill in the middle of them. Atsumu fidgets as he slips into the seat at the corner of the table, Kiyoomi next to him.

He reaches out his hand as if on instinct, and Atsumu smiles. Months of tentative touches have gotten Kiyoomi used to this kind of public affection. Atsumu couldn’t believe his luck the first time Kiyoomi let him hold his hand — he’d practically jumped out of his seat and cheered. He got a little too drunk in celebration, but he also ended up getting a blowjob, so it didn’t suck (but someone else did — ha).

Atsumu grips Kiyoomi’s hand and tries to act casually interested in the menu items. It’s funny that they bother — it’s all meat. They know they’re going to eat anything provided to them. Hell, last time they went to barbeque, Atsumu ate liver (Kiyoomi refused to kiss him on principle afterward; Atsumu had to pin him to the couch). He’s not picky, so he lets the rest of the guys figure out their first course. 

He’s engrossed in his phone when Kiyoomi gets his attention. 

“You have to cook the meat,” he says.

Atsumu huffs. His teammates always make him cook the meat. “I’m not ‘Samu.”

“You’re the closest we’ve got,” Inunaki says, holding up his chopsticks. 

“Hinata took cookin’ classes in Brazil!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t do too well,” Hinata admits. “My instructor told me I had the heart for it, but I’m too ‘easily distracted'.”

“You?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know, right!”

Atsumu holds back a guffaw as he starts poking at the grill. The rest of the guys still haven’t quite picked up on Kiyoomi’s penchant for sarcasm. Hinata and Bokuto take everything in earnest, and it just makes them love Kiyomi more. He’s a staple on the team — he’s everyone’s favorite, actually, much to Atsumu’s dismay. It’s not that he’s threatened, or thinks anyone is going to vie for his attention, but c’mon — Kiyoomi only has to smile once and everyone will swoon. He speaks and the entire team is enraptured. Atsumu still regularly gets booed for his jokes and shut down immediately when he tries to suggest something. 

Kiyoomi thinks it’s hilarious and brags about it all the time. 

“Yer turn next, Bo.” Atsumu shoves the tongs towards Bokuto. “I know damn well ya can handle yer way around some meat.”

Bokuto raises an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, ‘Tsumu. You can now, too.”

The table bursts out into laughter, including Atsumu’s traitorous boyfriend. He narrows his eyes at him and decides that now is the perfect time for his plan of attack — because this list item is premeditated. Usually, Atsumu closes his eyes and picks anything. It’s a fun way to ensure they never get bored of their dates, or what comes afterward, but this one requires build-up. It requires convincing. 

Once he makes sure Bokuto is situated (because apparently pushing meat around on a grill is an ordeal for a team of grown men) he pulls out his phone again. Kiyoomi is otherwise engaged in a conversation with Meian about their stock portfolios, which Atsumu knows from experience will last a good twenty minutes if not interrupted. Perfect. 

Atsumu types a message into his phone, doesn’t bother to proofread it (Kiyoomi has been on the receiving end of a whole mess of typos and he still loves Atsumu, so Atsumu doesn’t overthink it like he did in the beginning), and sends it off. He locks his screen, leans forward to engage Bokuto and Tomas in conversation, and waits.

It takes less time than he thinks. Meian excuses himself to use the restroom, and Kiyoomi checks his phone. 

It’s a testament to how well Atsumu knows him, that he had unwavering confidence Kiyoomi would look. He practically has a tic with how often he needs to be on it. It’s only gotten worse with Rintaro’s influence. The two of them text back and forth in their group chat constantly, and it’s dangerous. It’s a contrast to his quiet, non-social persona that he radiates to people he doesn’t know, but Kiyoomi is super, super active online. 

Atsumu doesn’t glance over at him directly, but he has him in his peripheral vision, so he sees when he opens the message. The effect is instantaneous — a dark blush, only visible in the low-lighting because Atsumu is so close, and the slight widening of his eyes.

And then, Atsumu is in trouble.

Kiyoomi turns to him and glares. “What are you doing?”

“Crossin’ somethin’ off our list,” Atsumu answers cheekily. “Ya said I could pick one.”

Kiyoomi inhales through his nose and glances around at the others around them. It never takes long for the MSBY Black Jackals to go from casually drunk to off-their-asses-intoxicated, and they’re well on their way already. Inunaki and Bokuto are fighting over how to properly cook the brisket they ordered; Tomas is challenging Hinata to a shot-drinking competition while Barnes plays referee, and Meian still hasn’t returned from the restroom. Nobody is watching them. They’ve already grown bored of teasing them for their relationship. It’s old news now, but Atsumu smirks at the thought of them finding out what they were doing now. 

Kiyoomi called him an exhibitionist once, when Atsumu admitted one of his fantasies (and now list items) was having sex in public. Atsumu blamed him for awakening all of his depravities when he used to be so innocent. 

Kiyoomi peers back down to his phone. The reduced brightness makes the message barely visible, but Atsumu knows what he’s admiring. A picture of Atsumu, taken before they left, in the foggy mirror of Kiyoomi’s bathroom. It’s tame. He’s shirtless, but he has a towel covering his waist. Kiyoomi knows what’s underneath, though, and he’s always been good at using his imagination. 

The message reads: Want to see more?

Atsumu is a novice at sexting. He’s sent Kiyoomi pictures before, but usually just goofy ones from the next room over. He figured it couldn’t be that different from phone sex (which Atsumu now knows propelled Kiyoomi into realizing his romantic feelings. Atsumu tries to call him every chance he gets, even when they’re in the same room. Kiyoomi always hits ‘ignore’), but just to be sure, he consulted the freaks in his life about it.

“This is fantastic.” Rintaro’s face broke into that calculated, creepy smile that he got whenever he was going to embarrass someone as soon as Atsumu voiced his concern. Kiyoomi and Motoya were out at the time, visiting another cousin whom Kiyoomi promised Atsumu didn’t want to meet yet, and so it was just the three of them, lounging on Atsumu’s couch.

“This is disgustin’. I’m leavin’,” Osamu decided, miming that he was going to puke.

“Babe, no, c’mon. Look at his face — he’s earnest. He needs us.”

“This goes against my fuckin’ morality code.”

“Ya wanna talk about a morality code? You?”

“Fuckin’ — fine, but ya owe me for this. Free labor every weekend next month, and I don’t wanna hear how it goes.”

“I do,” Rintaro said. “Alright, my student. Let’s get started…”

Atsumu saw more pictures of Rintaro in his underwear than he ever wanted to see, but he thinks he at least has a good understanding of the whole sexting thing now. 

“No,” Kiyoomi answers Atsumu’s text out loud, but Atsumu can read him better than that. It’s not a firm no. It wavers, and Kiyoomi’s lips twitch, like he wants to smile, like he wants to kiss Atsumu. He doesn’t follow it up with a ‘stop it’ or make any indication that he’s uncomfortable with the situation, so Atsumu considers that a green light to go full-steam ahead.

But Kiyoomi can’t expect it. That takes the fun out of it, so he shrugs good-naturedly and says, “Alright, Omi-kun. Never mind, then.” 

Kiyoomi glares, like he doesn’t trust Atsumu in the slightest, and honestly, it hurts. So, he’s played a few harmless pranks, and maybe teased Kiyoomi for a solid two weeks after he finally realized that Atsumu had liked him the whole time, but he’s trustworthy. 

Well, he’s usually trustworthy. Not tonight. 

Atsumu waits until Kiyoomi lets his guard down — Hinata, always his unintentional wingman, grabs Kiyoomi’s attention, bragging for the fifth time (that Atsumu’s heard) about that one match when Karasuno beat Shiratorizawa. Once Kiyoomi is engaged in the conversation, Atsumu strikes. He pulls out the second photo from his collection and attaches it to a message.

This one is much riskier. It’s another mirror selfie, though this time, he shifted the towel, exposing his hip bones and thighs and the slightest hint of happy trail. He holds the phone up to his chest and his tongue is out — something that drives Kiyoomi crazy, even if he’ll never outright admit it. He adds a message: Eyes on my face, Omi. 

Kiyoomi freezes in the middle of his sentence the moment his phone vibrates, and Atsumu knows he has him. 

“Excuse me,” he tells Hinata.

This time, Kiyoomi doesn’t look at him. He just fires off a message, eyes narrowed and eyebrows scrunched up in concentration.

“Jeeze, who’s Omi texting with that face?” Bokuto asks Atsumu.

“Motoya,” Kiyoomi answers, curt.

“Ah, makes sense then.” Bokuto nods sagely. 

Three seconds later, Atsumu’s phone buzzes. 

I don’t know what game you’re trying to play but I’m not drunk enough to kiss you in a bar bathroom right now.  

Atsumu smirks. “Ya want another drink, Omi-Omi?” he asks in a simpering tone. Atsumu may be the less experienced one in this relationship, but he doesn’t let that lower his confidence. He’s a natural-born flirt, as Kiyoomi told him, and once he figured out how easy it was to make Kiyoomi squirm, he made it his life mission to do it as often as possible.

“Water is fine,” Kiyoomi grumbles. He’s fighting Atsumu on this, but that’s fine — Atsumu likes a chase and he knows that despite the front he’ll put up, Kiyoomi likes games too. 

“Don’t be lame, Omi-san!” Hinata protests. He’s drunk, and it happened in the blink of an eye, like it always does. Hinata is a magician whose only gimmick is making dangerous amounts of alcohol disappear. “Here, look, I have an extra shot.”

Ah, he actually has another trick — other than drinking everybody under the table before they can even take a breath, Hinata also seems to have an endless flow of shots available to him at all times. It’s like they walk into the restaurant and the waitstaff just  know. 

“Fine,” Kiyoomi snaps, and he takes it. Atsumu smiles, because he heard the double meaning — Kiyoomi isn’t just begrudgingly accepting a drink. He’s saying yes to Atsumu’s game, too, and so it’s on. 

He watches Kiyoomi’s throat as he swallows the shot, squeezes the hand still holding onto his, and then ignores his phone completely. Instead, he carries on casually — he takes the tongs away from Bokuto, who has proved he cannot handle meat, apparently, and serves the rest of the team. He takes a shot with Hinata. He laughs at Inunaki’s drunken babbling about the V-League libero group chat, and how he and Motoya used to have weekly check-ins on Kiyoomi’s friendship management. 

Atsumu waits until the tension seeps out of Kiyoomi before he makes his next move. This time, he’s discreet — he types without looking down, only glancing at the screen to make sure he’s attached the right picture, because this is an important one. Once everything is set, he clicks send and watches Kiyoomi’s phone vibrate on the table in front of him.

He snatches it up so quickly that Atsumu snorts. Kiyoomi turns to glare.

“Is this why you took so long in the bathroom?”

Atsumu just shrugs. 

“You’re the worst. Just wait until we get home,” he hisses.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Atsumu sings. Then lower, he adds, “Don’t ya wanna see what I sent ya?”

Color floods to Kiyoomi’s cheeks. In less than ten seconds, the flush begins to rival that of which he has on the court, and if Atsumu looks really closely, he’s sure he’ll be able to see his eyes dilate. Kiyoomi says nothing. He simply stares at his phone screen, and Atsumu is so caught up in the moment, so mesmerized by the way Kiyoomi’s lips part, just slightly, that he forgets where they are. 

“You feeling okay, Sakusa?”

It’s Meian who asks, but it draws the attention of everyone on the team. Atsumu holds his breath, wonders what answer Kiyoomi is going to come up with for them. He can count the number of times he’s seen his boyfriend lose his composure on one hand and all of those have been in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. The Black Jackals have seen him throw tantrums, sure, but they haven’t seen him like this.

It sends a sort of thrill through Atsumu. 

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi grits out, and there’s a bit of deja vu to this scenario. Maybe Atsumu really is an exhibitionist. It’s so fun to rile Kiyoomi up in public. “I’m going to the restroom.”

This time around, Atsumu doesn’t follow him. Instead, he puts on his most innocent face, and goes back to cooking.

When he looks up, he finds that his teammates, now with no Kiyoomi to ogle, have moved their prying eyes to him. “What? Ya never seen anyone cook before? Or just shocked by someone with actual skill?”

“What are you and Sakusa up to?” Tomas demands.

“Huh?”

“You better not be doing some weird sex thing at our team dinner,” Inunaki warns. “Oh my God. Are you groping him under the table?”

“If you get caught in a social media scandal, Foster will kick you off the team,” Meian threatens. “Just in time for a new rookie setter to come in and take your place.”

“I am the fuckin’ glue of this team, first of all,” Atsumu huffs. “So, it would take more than a measly scandal to kick me off. Bo is still on the team, and I’ve seen his bare ass on Twitter more times than anyone should have to.”

“They keep editing it,” Bokuto groans. “Every time I think it’s gone, there’s another meme.”

“That’s your own fault for skinny-dipping at three in the afternoon,” Barnes says. “At a public beach.”

“It was Hinata’s idea! We forgot our swimsuits! It was hot!” 

“You’re letting Miya distract you,” Inunaki whines. “He’s doing some weird sex thing at the table and that’s why Sakusa ran away.”

“Sorry to disappoint ya, but there’s no weird sex things goin’ on, ya pervert.” Atsumu makes sure his face comes across as indignant while making his voice sound a bit higher-pitched than usual, like he can’t believe his teammates would accuse him of such things. This is also the perfect opportunity. “Omi hasn’t been feelin’ well all night. He wanted to come anyway, ‘cause he treasures his time with y’all. Keep that between us, though.” 

“Does he really?” Hinata cries. “So, the smiles have been for us, too!”

“No, those are still for me,” Atsumu corrects him. He sees Meian’s pointed glare, and sighs. “Okay, yes, they’re for you, too. Omi cares about the whole team a lot, so he pushed himself to be here.” He puts on the face of the concerned boyfriend. “Ya saw his face, right? I’m worried he might have a fever.”

“Sakusa?” Tomas scoffs. “As if he would ever let himself get sick.”

“Maybe ‘Tsumu really is changing him,” Bokuto muses. 

“For the worse,” quips Inunaki.

Atsumu waves them off. Kiyoomi has been gone for over three minutes now, which is out of character for him. A fun fact about Kiyoomi is that he pees freaky-fast. He can be in and out of a public bathroom before Atsumu has even undone his belt, other than that one time…

Atsumu doesn’t think of that at the moment. If he went after Kiyoomi, he’s not sure he’d leave the bathroom in one piece. He does, however, have one final bit of his plan that will be best executed if Kiyoomi isn’t in front of a crowd. Once he’s sure his teammates have moved onto new topics, Atsumu selects the final photo from his collection and shoots it off to Kiyoomi.

There’s no caption. He doesn’t need one for this photo. It speaks for itself.

Several minutes later, Kiyoomi arrives back at the table, looking slightly less red but still noticeably disheveled. Atsumu knows he splashed his face with water, or gave himself a pep talk in the mirror. His poor Omi. 

He should feel worse, but hey, he suffered through a lot for this man before they got together. He can return the favor. “Hey, Omi. I told the team ya weren’t feelin’ well. Ya didn’t throw up, did ya? I hope ya didn’t eat somethin’ that didn’t agree with ya.”

Kiyoomi glares at him hard enough to melt plastic. “No, I didn’t. Let’s go. Here,” he says to the team. He throws several bills down on the table. “For our portion. Apologies for leaving so suddenly.”  

Kiyoomi certainly sounds unwell and Atsumu wonders if that’s acting, or his doing. The last picture was a doozy.

“No problem,” Meian says. “Rest up. Tomorrow is a day off, so use it to actually relax.”

He’s speaking to Atsumu more so than Kiyoomi. Atsumu clicks his tongue. 

“I’ll take good care of him, don’t ya worry,” he promises.

“I still think this is a sex thing,” Inunaki stage-whispers. Bokuto and Hinata nod. Kiyoomi’s head snaps to Atsumu, and he shrugs, like he has no clue what they’re going on about.

They make it out of the restaurant, and wait for a ride in relative peace, but Atsumu sees the storm brewing in Kiyoomi’s eyes. It’s rapidly approaching, and Atsumu knows the moment they’re alone, the drizzle will turn into a hurricane.

“Did ya like the last one I sent ya?” he dares.

“I regret teaching you anything.”

“Nah, ya didn’t teach me how to get ya goin’,” Atsumu teases. “I learned that all by myself. Hey, Omi, let’s cross two items off my list tonight. I’m sure ya know the second I’ve got in mind.”

Instead of answering with words, Kiyoomi wraps an arm around Atsumu’s waist, almost possessively, and holds him to his body. Atsumu feels the heat radiating off of him. The sexual tension is palpable and to tamp it down, Atsumu nuzzles into his neck.

“Are you ever going to get easier to deal with?” Kiyoomi wonders out loud.

“Not plannin’ on it.” 

Rideshares with Kiyoomi are always precarious. Their first memory of riding home together is burned into both of their brains, and Atsumu can’t help the physical desire that overwhelms him whenever he sits next to Kiyoomi in the backseat, their thighs touching. 

Kiyoomi’s arm rests behind Atsumu, fingers gently playing with his hair, holding pressure on his neck, and Atsumu arches into the touch. He may have been the one to get Kiyoomi into a state, but it’s not like he’s unaffected. His mind races with the thought of what Kiyoomi is going to do to him tonight, what he’s been asking for for weeks now. 

The ride is short. Atsumu praises the gods for it, because Kiyoomi’s touches have been just feather-light enough to drive Atsumu crazy, and he decided to retaliate by rubbing his hand up the inside of Kiyoomi’s thigh. Now they’re both about fifteen seconds from fucking each other in the backseat of some poor stranger’s car.

They make it into Kiyoomi’s apartment, but they don’t make it to the bedroom. They don’t even get close. Kiyoomi is on Atsumu the moment their shoes are off, grasping him by the collar and crashing their chests together. Atsumu moans as soon as Kiyoomi’s lips touch his, deepening the kiss, feeling him out, tasting him. Kiyoomi always tastes like mint. Toothpaste, gum, his favorite ice-cream flavor — his lips are cold and Atsumu’s tingle when they touch them. From their very first kiss, Atsumu knew he would be addicted to Sakusa Kiyoomi.

They writhe against the door, the wall, every available surface before Atsumu manages to pry Kiyoomi off of him. He’s already disheveled, hair mussed and eyes blown wide and something deep inside of Atsumu aches to ravish him, to bend him over the counter and listen to him fall apart, but that wasn’t the plan. 

“You fuck me tonight,” Atsumu demands, hands gripping Kiyoomi’s biceps. He lets them slide down over smooth skin until he’s holding Kiyoomi’s hands. “That’s what I want.”

“I gathered that from the pictures,” Kiyoomi says, eyes traveling up and down Atsumu’s body like he’s trying to commit him to memory. “Are you sure?”

Kiyoomi watches him. There’s a thing about Kiyoomi — he says he’s a switch, that he doesn’t really have a preference, but he always bottoms. They’ve been together for a month, have a lot, a lot of sex, and yet Atsumu is the top every time. He’s asked for it before — begged, even, but Kiyoomi is always reluctant. When Atsumu asked him about it, after the third failed attempt, he just shook his head.

“It would be your first time.” 

“Yeah, and? Ya took every other first, what’s one more?” Atsumu had wondered. “What’s the big deal?”

“It just is,” Kiyoomi said. “A big deal. I just want you to be ready. To be sure.”

Kiyoomi hadn’t entertained any more arguments, and Atsumu shut up when he took his pants off and spread his legs for Atsumu on the bed, but he didn’t give up. He wants it so bad that he was willing to play dirty to get it, and judging by the frantic rise and fall of Kiyoomi’s chest, and the magnetic gaze, Atsumu thinks he’s finally going to get what he wants. 

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whines, and he’s really something else. Atsumu falls forward into him, mouthing at his neck and grinding himself against his thigh. Kiyoomi stiffens.

“Feel how much I want ya inside of me, Omi?”

“I need you to be prepared.”

“Didn’t I look prepared in the picture I sent ya?” Atsumu whispers against his skin. At the mention of the final picture, Kiyoomi groans. Atsumu bites down on his neck and then moves to his ear, “I’ve been preppin’ myself in the shower, testin’ it out, and I like how it feels, baby.” The name sends a shiver through Kiyoomi that Atsumu feels on his lips. Kiyoomi loves nicknames — ‘Omi-Omi’ may make him roll his eyes, but ‘baby’, ‘darlin’ and ‘sweetheart’ practically make his knees buckle. “Ya saw what my fingers were doin’, how good I looked spread open. I bet I’m still loose for ya. You’ll barely have to do any work.”

“Fuck, you’re obscene.” That’s usually Atsumu’s line — Atsumu’s obscenity is expected, but from Kiyoomi, it’s a pleasant surprise, no matter how many times Atsumu has heard the filth that can come out of his mouth. “Those pictures — I don’t even know how you managed them.”

“Self-timer.”

“Resourceful,” Kiyoomi grunts when Atsumu trails his kisses lower, swirling his tongue around Kiyoomi’s exposed collarbone. 

“Thanks,” Atsumu mumbles. “Wanted to make sure ya could see how good yer dick is gonna look inside me.”

Kiyoomi’s breath hitches. He nudges Atsumu off of his chest and grips him by the jaw, bringing their lips together. When he pulls away, they’re both breathing heavily, taking each other in. “How am I supposed to be gentle with you when you talk like that?”

“Don’t gotta be gentle,” Atsumu whispers, and he brings his hips flush up to Kiyoomi’s and grinds, hard. 

Kiyoomi moans into open air, and then seems to solidify his decision. He peels himself away from Atsumu but keeps one hand locked to his, and pulls him into the bedroom. They tumble down together, and Atsumu isn’t sure where his body ends and Kiyoomi’s begins with the way he’s molding himself to Atsumu. His lips find purchase wherever they can — catching his mouth, sucking bruises into his neck, licking a stripe under his ear, his jaw. Kiyoomi kisses lower, hands traveling as he goes, lifting up Atsumu’s shirt and then pulling it over his extended arms. 

“You looked filthy in your photos,” Kiyoomi says, pressing an open-mouthed, hot kiss to his naval. “I thought I was going to have to drag you with me into the bathroom again.”

“Would’ve let ya,” Atsumu whimpers. “I like when ya look at me.” He’s already babbling — this isn’t good. Kiyoomi is going to ruin him with dirty talk alone. “Wanted to show ya everythin’ I had for ya.” 

Any words Kiyoomi may have had seem to catch in his throat, but he chooses to use his mouth to communicate in other ways. He kisses Atsumu everywhere, leaving him burning, arching up into each press. No matter how riled up they are, no matter how desperately Kiyoomi wants it, he always takes his time, like he’ll never have enough of Atsumu — he finds something new to worship on him, every time.

Atsumu thinks that it should be the other way around. Atsumu wants Kiyoomi endlessly, and he feels like he’s still struggling to make up for lost time. He always ached to get his hands on him, to touch Kiyoomi like he touched Atsumu, to make him feel just as good as he always did. It was a lesson in patience and some form of divine punishment. Every time Kiyoomi would get close to breaking, to snapping, Atsumu would hold his breath, hoping that it would finally be the time he could reciprocate. 

Atsumu is still pent-up from it all. He thinks he might always be. 

“Omi, c’mon,” he manages, when Kiyoomi starts pressing his lips to his clothed thighs. God, Kiyoomi is always on his thighs — kissing, squeezing, using them as pillows. Atsumu loves it, but it’s not enough. “Need ya to take more clothes off.”

He shucks his shirt and then goes right back in, this time mouthing along the waistband of Atsumu’s pants. He must be feeling generous, because while Kiyoomi is sweet to Atsumu when they fall into bed together, he’s also a nightmare of feather-light touches and cruel teases. He’ll string Atsumu along just to savor his reactions, but tonight, Kiyoomi senses the urgency, and so he yanks Atsumu’s pants down quickly, takes a quick second to admire him in only his boxers, and then rids him of those, too. Atsumu is bare, heated under Kiyoomi’s gaze.

“Aren’t ya used to me yet?” Atsumu teases, just to say something so that he doesn’t suffocate under the stare. Kiyoomi is still half-dressed, straining in his pants, with his curls hanging limp in front of his eyes, frizzed from Atsumu’s fingers threading through them. His face is flushed and his breaths come out shaky. Kiyoomi is beautiful all the time — sometimes, unbelievably so, but he’s prettiest when he’s barely keeping it together. 

“How could I ever be?” Kiyoomi mutters. “You make me lose my mind.” 

He emphasizes his admission by running his hands over Atsumu’s thighs, skirting past his cock, which is bordering on painfully hard already. Atsumu’s hips jump on their own accord and Kiyoomi hums, ghosting his touch lower, until his fingers are reaching behind him, and ghosting over where Atsumu wants them most.

“Ya won’t have to do much,” Atsumu promises. “Bet ya won’t complain about my long showers anymore.”

It’s a joke, but when Kiyoomi’s gaze falls to Atsumu’s face, there’s no humor, only reverence. “No, I guess I won’t. I might join you, though.”

Atsumu swallows. “Please do.”

“After this.”

“‘Kay,” Atsumu replies, weak, and then Kiyoomi pulls away to grab lube and condoms from the bedside table, drizzles the liquid over his fingers, and breaches Atsumu’s entrance with two fingers at once. Atsumu throws his head back, keening.

He’s sensitive — he really did take a long time preparing himself in the shower, but he didn’t have enough time to fully finish, so he’s been half-hard all night, trying desperately to focus on the excitement around him and not what he had planned for Kiyoomi afterward. Seeing his reactions to the pictures didn’t help either. Atsumu has been craving this for hours, and now his body doesn’t know whether to surrender entirely to the arousal or run in the other direction.

Kiyoomi’s pace is maddeningly careful. Atsumu lifts himself up on his elbows, waits for Kiyoomi to look at him, and then glares.

“I said ya don’t gotta be gentle.”

“I want to be gentle,” Kiyoomi says, eyes falling back to where his fingers work, as if he’s marveling at the motions. He slides in a third finger, meeting little resistance, and a garbled moan makes its way past Atsumu’s lips without his explicit permission. “I’m going to make this a first time you’ll never be able to get out of your head.”

Atsumu whines. “Romantic of ya, sweetheart.”

“It’s not romance,” Kiyoomi says, smirking. “It’s so you know that nobody will ever take care of you like this. Nobody will make you feel this good but me.”

“As if I’d ever think that,” Atsumu grumbles. “Yer stuck with me forever, Omi, I’m not goin’ any —”

Atsumu chokes on the rest of his sentence when Kiyoomi finds his prostate because shit, erotica novels (the ones he steals from Kiyoomi — Atsumu does not own any) are absolutely spot-on in their description of how good this is. Atsumu feels dizzy, light-headed with stars behind his closed eyes. 

“Fuck, Omi,” he manages. He’s no longer coherent. Gone are any quips or flirtatious remarks he had prepared for tonight. He’s done for. “That feels really good.”

So many things feel good, and Kiyoomi takes the time to show Atsumu all of them. He practically sobs when Kiyoomi curls his fingers again, no longer slow and soft, but scissoring him in earnest. No amount of self-preparation could have readied Atsumu for these sensations. Kiyoomi knows his body better than Atsumu knows it himself, and only in a few months. It’s terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. 

“You’re incredible,” Kiyoomi murmurs. His thoughts show on his face like this — awe, wonder, and love. Atsumu is feeling too much. He’s falling apart, drowning in pleasure and affection because yeah, maybe he is a hopeless romantic, and maybe he can be silly about things that others don’t think matter, but he knows for a fact that he’s never going to love anybody the way he loves Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

He wants to say so, but the breath is punched out of him when Kiyoomi removes his fingers and shoves down his pants. He’s back on Atsumu instantly, but this time he brings their lips together, devouring him like he’s Kiyoomi’s favorite meal. Their cocks brush against each other, and Kiyoomi groans as he bares down further, increasing the pressure. Atsumu is reaching dangerous territory — he was a virgin up until a month ago, and so his stamina is...lacking, a bit, still. Kiyoomi knows this, but he still pushes him as far as he can go before giving in, giving him what he wants.

“Kiyoomi,” he pleads. “Please. I want ya inside me so bad. Fill me up. I’m beggin’.” 

Begging is Kiyoomi’s weakness. It works every time.

Kiyoomi nips at Atsumu’s neck once before pulling away and spreading his legs so he can fit in between them. Atsumu’s eyes feel heavy. His entire body is weighed down with anticipation, as if it’s filled with lead , but he takes Kiyoomi in because he still can’t believe sometimes that somebody like this belongs to him. 

Weeks ago, Atsumu lay awake in his bed, brain buzzing, as he replayed a night with Kiyoomi over and over. Body worship was the list item — something Atsumu had read a lot about, and wanted for the sheer romanticism of it all. He expected Kiyoomi to say no, but he shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t. Kiyoomi never said no to Atsumu. He gave and he gave, and Atsumu took all he could get. 

That night had been a turning point. They broke their last rule and Atsumu took the final leap into falling in love as he held his pillow over his face hours after Kiyoomi went home and smiled into it like a smitten teenager, remembering the kisses he’d lavished over Kiyoomi’s moles, the lines he’d traced over his abs, his hip bones. 

“Please,” he begs once more. 

Kiyoomi concedes. 

The stretch is uncomfortable, despite how much Atsumu has prepared. He’s never used a toy before, never had anything inside of him except for his and Kiyoomi’s fingers, but Kiyoomi takes it slow, centimeter by centimeter, watching Atsumu’s face like a hawk. 

“I’m fine, Omi,” he grits out. The pain fades to a dull ache after a moment, and Atsumu wraps his legs around Kiyoomi’s waist, pulling him in closer. Their moans mingle with their heavy breaths and Atsumu keeps his eyes on Kiyoomi. He’s concentrated, biting his lip as he sinks further into Atsumu and Atsumu can tell that he’s hanging onto that thin thread of self-control, trying so hard to take it slow for Atsumu’s sake.

His heart jumps to his throat as Kiyoomi finally, finally bottoms out. It’s — he doesn’t know how he would describe it, because he’s never experienced anything like it. He focuses on his breathing, because if he doesn’t, he thinks he may pass out, and pleasure pulses through him like electric shocks. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t move yet, but he’s inside of him. He’s braced above Atsumu, hands twisted into the sheets, caging him in. His arms tremble, just the slightest bit and Atsumu reaches up for his face and cups it in his hands, pulling him down.

“I trust ya, baby,” he whispers against his lips. “I’ve always trusted ya to take care of me, so you can go ahead and move.”

Kiyoomi kisses him. It’s a cocktail of emotions — desperation, a frantic sort of desire, and love. Kiyoomi speaks with his actions, and Atsumu feels the waves of his adoration and devotion wash over him. It’s in the care in his eyes, the gentle pecks he presses to Atsumu’s temple, his cheek, back to his lips as he pulls out, meticulous in his movements.

“Atsumu,” he breathes.

And he pushes back in. 

If Atsumu thought it was overwhelming before, that was nothing compared to now. Kiyoomi’s thrusts pick up pace and he grips the underside of Atsumu’s legs, hiking them up so he can hit a new angle. Atsumu loses all sense of what he’s saying, babbling praise and pleas and crying out every variation of Kiyoomi’s name he can formulate in his brain. It’s so good — it’s otherworldly. Kiyoomi’s hands wander up his thighs, over his abs while he fucks into Atsumu He pinches his nipples between nimble fingers and Atsumu would be embarrassed of the high-pitched keen that draws out of him if he was anywhere near in control of his own emotions.

“I love you,” he whimpers, because he does, and because it feels like the right thing to say. This entire experience — it’s different; it’s intimate. It’s special. Atsumu couldn’t have done this with anybody but Kiyoomi. He rejects the very idea of it. He could only surrender like this to Kiyoomi, could only be this vulnerable with someone he loves the way he loves the man in front of him 

Kiyoomi digs his nails into Atsumu’s thighs and then collapses on top of him, hips continuing to piston in and out of Atsumu, dragging broken moans from deep in his chest. Atsumu’s head has lolled to the side and he’s hiding his face in his armpit, but soon Kiyoomi’s hands are finding him. Kiyoomi guides his face to meet his and stares at Atsumu, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as his gaze fills with an indescribable emotion.

“Does it feel that good, Omi?” he asks, trying to cut through the tension of it all, the intensity. “Makin’ ya — fuck — cry?” 

Kiyoomi smiles, at that — a sweet, dopey smile that Kiyoomi wears a lot more often these days. It’s true and it’s genuine. It squeezes Atsumu’s heart. “It does,” he says, swiping his thumb over Atsumu’s cheek. “I love you. So much.”

Atsumu is going to come just from hearing that he’s loved. He’s worse than hopeless in the romance department, but Kiyoomi never seems to mind. He repeats the words, a mantra, soft, as he continues to move. Atsumu silences him with a kiss, a needy, distraught thing, and Kiyoomi understands it. He slides his hand in between them and wraps it around Atsumu’s cock. All at once, he’s blazing. There are too many sensations and Atsumu doesn’t last another minute. He comes with a cry, leaking into Kiyoomi’s hand. He pumps him through it, even as his hips stutter and he lets out his own disjointed moan. 

They listen to each other’s breathing as they come down. Atsumu gives Kiyoomi a whole minute before he has to word vomit his thoughts.

“That shoulda been the first thing we crossed off the list.”

Kiyoomi breathes out quietly through his nose — a laugh, which Atsumu counts as a success. “You practically passed out when I first gave you a handjob. This would’ve killed you.”

“Yer misrememberin’,” Atsumu insists, but a smile ghosts over his lips. 

“I must be,” Kiyoomi says. Atsumu doesn’t see the eye roll, but he knows it’s there. He turns over on his side to face him. They’re still a mess, but sex seems to take Kiyoomi out. Atsumu has to keep him from falling asleep before cleaning up every single time. 

Atsumu is the one who hauls him up now. Their roles have reversed in some ways, and stayed firm in others. Kiyoomi no longer only takes or teaches, but they experience together, an ebb and flow. Kiyoomi, as it turns out, when not being tasked with crossing off items on a list of his teammate’s firsts, is a bit of a baby. Before, he would always make sure to help Atsumu clean up and get dressed, but he supposes that was probably because of the boner situation. Now, when satisfied, Kiyoomi will whine and grumble when Atsumu tells him they need to shower, but he always thanks him for it later, when they’re laid up together on the couch, watching their K-drama of the week, or dozing in each other’s arms.

That’s where they end up. It’s late, so Kiyoomi will be dead to the world soon. Atsumu doesn’t have to fight to keep him awake now, with bad commentary or subtle jabs to the side. These days, if Kiyoomi falls asleep, Atsumu can just guide him to bed and wrap his arms around him. 

Atsumu smiles into Kiyoomi’s neck, listens to his breaths evening out. He’s still hanging on, tracing a lazy pattern over Atsumu’s bare back. The television plays in the background, casting the room in a blue glow. On the coffee table, the small, tattered piece of notebook paper lies face-up next to an uncapped pen. He shifts, careful not to jostle Kiyoomi too much, and grabs the pen and paper. He presses the list down on Kiyoomi’s chest, laughing at the way he opens one eye to glare. When Kiyoomi’s eyes fall to the list, his expression melts into something more tender.

Atsumu leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, and then crosses off two more items.