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Kiyoomi hadn’t exactly been planning to wear lingerie tonight.
To be fair, it’s never really something he plans in advance. It’s not an everyday sort of thing, at least for him; with his career, simple boxer-briefs are usually a lot more practical than lace garters and silk panties.
He mostly saves his pretty bodysuits and matching sets for special occasions—fancy dinners, weddings, charity galas. Usually more boring affairs where his clothes offer more than enough coverage, where he can feel daring and sexy and confident without any real risk of someone spotting a bra strap or a bit of lace edging.
It’s his own little secret—the kind that sets electricity humming under his skin, building slowly as the minutes of the event tick by.
He’s always trembling by the time he gets home, knowing his delicate panties are already soaked through. He undresses slowly, carefully, before he allows himself to pull them to the side, slipping his favorite vibrator into his pussy and letting it rumble against his g-spot and clit until he’s too fucked-out to stand.
No matter how dull the event is, he always ends up enjoying it.
It had been a while since the last one, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been looking for an occasion to wear something new, but…
Well, this one is risky. Risky enough for him to initially write it off immediately.
After the incident a few months ago where Bokuto accidentally knocked an interviewer’s iced coffee directly onto Kiyoomi’s lap on live television, he’d vowed to never put himself in a situation where the team could possibly find out.
He’d ruined his favorite garters that day, and that was probably the luckiest outcome he could’ve hoped for. If it had landed on his shirt, half of Japan would’ve seen the outline of his lace bra by the next morning. He’s seen what the Jackals’ fans are like on Twitter. He knows how fast that clip would’ve spread.
And that’s not even mentioning the potential horror of the team knowing. There’s two possibilities of how they’d react; either they’d rib him about it for the rest of eternity, or they’d collectively attempt to pretend they don’t know, and he’s not sure which would be worse.
He doesn’t think it matters. He’d rather die than deal with the mortification of looking any of them in they eye again, anyway.
He’d have to change careers. And probably move to a new country.
So when Foster informed them that one of the team’s biggest sponsors was hosting a dinner in a month, Kiyoomi squashed the idea before it could even fully form in his head.
Too risky, he told himself, focusing on writing down the date and time of the event. Not worth it.
He tried not to think about it again.
He succeeds in not thinking about it right up until the night of the dinner.
It isn’t his fault.
He’s already freshly showered, styled his hair, and done his entire post-morning, pre-bedtime, evening-event-specific skincare routine to get ready. He is ready—all he has left to do is get dressed and wait for Miya to show up so they can carpool to the restaurant together.
He isn’t ready to reach into his underwear drawer and feel soft lace, usually kept folded at the very back of the drawer, brush against his fingertips.
The sensation sends a shiver down his spine.
Against his better judgment—against any good judgment—he lets his hand close around the fabric.
I just need to fold it before I put it back, he reasons.
He pulls it out and his breath catches in his throat.
It’s a garter belt—part of a new set he’d bought. Soft black lace, opaque designs swirling over a translucent backing, delicate and beautiful. He’d custom-ordered the pieces as a treat for himself; the only time he put them on was when they first arrived.
They had fit like a dream.
He hasn’t had a chance to wear them properly since then, eagerly waiting for the next occasion to present itself. He’s been dying to—the lace is so smooth, he can already tell it won’t itch—he has the perfect pair of stockings to match—he’ll just try them on for a second—
Twenty minutes later, he’s climbing into Miya’s stupid tiny sedan, trying his hardest to not think about how exquisite the lace feels under his suit.
Miya wolf-whistles, giving Kiyoomi the least subtle once-over he’s ever received in his life. “Hey Omi! Lookin’ good, that a new suit?”
Kiyoomi sighs inwardly and wills his face to remain neutral. He doesn’t have the bandwidth tonight to deal with Miya’s trademark… whatever this is.
Teasing.
Flirting.
He flatly refuses to think of it as charm.
“I wore it to our last off-court interview.” Kiyoomi keeps his tone cool. “You said the exact same thing then, too.”
Miya grins as he pulls out of the parking lot, shameless. “Well, I stand by it!”
Kiyoomi subtly curls his fingers around the edge of his seat, trying to mentally steel himself for the car ride.
“That wasn’t th’ one with the whole coffee thing, right?”
Just what Kiyoomi needed—a reminder of exactly why the soft lace and sheer stockings hugging his body are a bad idea. He grimaces. “No. That suit was ruined.”
Along with my goddamn garters, he doesn’t add.
“Shame, that was a good one too.” Miya takes his eyes off the road just long enough to wink at Kiyoomi. “Remember how Twitter took that clip of your ass and—“
“Yes, I remember,” Kiyoomi interrupts, not wanting to take that particular stroll down memory lane. He can already feel a headache starting.
Maybe his real mistake wasn’t the lingerie. Maybe it was accepting Miya’s ride offer on the logic of ‘well, he’s cleaner than a taxi and marginally less terrifying of a driver than any of the others who live nearby.’
Now he’s remembering why he should’ve said no.
Because Miya keeps up his usual flirty banter. His just-skirting-the-edge-of-sexually-charged touches. His winks and his challenging smirks.
He should’ve called a cab.
Hell, by the time they reach the restaurant Kiyoomi’s convinced he should’ve accepted Inunaki’s offer to give him a ride. And Inunaki’s gotten into more minor car accidents than Kiyoomi had fingers to count them.
Kiyoomi’s skin is tingling with nervous energy as he climbs out of the car. The kind he usually doesn’t get until the end of his ‘special occasion’ evenings.
Miya drapes a casual arm over his shoulders, chattering away as they walk into the venue, and Kiyoomi tries to tell his body to calm the fuck down.
It doesn’t listen.
This is going to be a long dinner.
Kiyoomi finds himself in the single-occupancy restroom, splashing cold water on his face for the fifth time in under two hours.
He isn’t sure he’s going to make it out of this meal alive.
Maybe he would’ve been fine if Miya hadn’t sat right next to him. Maybe.
But he did. Of course he did, and then he kept up his flirting and his teasing, right in front of the sponsors, complete with his goddamned charming smile and his goddamned handsome laugh and his goddamned touching, and Kiyoomi feels like he’s going fucking insane.
He’s had to ask sponsors to repeat questions three separate times. It’s bad.
His only saving grace is that the restaurant they rented out is a trendy, basement-speakeasy sort of place—private, cosy, and, most importantly, dark. There’s no windows, just dim orange bulbs hanging from wrought-iron hoops to provide light.
Kiyoomi would normally hate eating someplace with awful lighting. He’d worry they were trying to hide something wrong with the food.
Tonight, he’s just grateful it means his flush is hidden from anyone not looking closely.
He takes in a deep breath, pressing his cold hands to his cheeks.
He’s fine. He’s fine. He can do this, it’s just another hour or two—
A tentative rap on the door pulls him from his thoughts.
“Just a minute!” he calls, praying that whoever it is goes to find another bathroom.
“Omi?”
Kiyoomi cringes.
Fuck.
“You okay?” Miya continues, voice pitched to carry through the door.
Shit. Shit, shit. If Miya figured out something’s up, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does, too. If they haven’t already.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Kiyoomi’s voice squeaks a little. He prays Miya doesn’t notice.
Miya hesitates. “Well, ya keep disappearin’ to the bathroom. And yer actin’ kinda weird—more than normal, I mean. Like, all jumpy and distracted.”
Kiyoomi fights the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. There’s definitely something distracting him.
“I’m—“
He stops short.
Wait.
Miya’s handing him the perfect opportunity.
He takes a quick look in the mirror. The pink tinge of his cheeks is visible in the brighter bathroom lighting, his hair a little messy from his agitated fingers. He’d stripped his suit jacket off at the table, feeling too warm to keep it on.
Perfect.
He turns and whips open the door, coming face-to-face with Miya.
“Actually, I’m not feeling well,” he declares, hoping to every deity that Miya believes that his current state’s caused by a viral infection and not desperate horniness.
Miya’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, fuck—d’you have a fever? Ya look pretty red—“
Kiyoomi neatly dodges Miya’s attempt to pass a hand to his cheek to feel his temperature. That would not help the current situation. “I think so,” he says, seeing his chance and grabbing it. “I’ll call a cab to head home, I wouldn’t want to get any of the sponsors sick—“
Something flickers across Miya’s face, almost imperceptible. It’s gone before Kiyoomi can process it.
“Nah Omi, ya shouldn’t take a cab if yer sick—I know you never think they’re clean enough. I can drive ya.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “You really don’t have to,” Kiyoomi assures, trying not to grit his teeth.
“It’s no problem, I promise. ’S what friends are for, right?”
Kiyoomi notices Miya’s eyes scan him for a second—not his obnoxious leer from earlier, but something more… searching. Maybe trying to look for some more evidence of Kiyoomi’s ailment, he guesses.
It feels… odd.
It only lasts a moment before his eyes are back on Kiyoomi’s, his face falling into an easy grin. “Besides, I was kinda lookin’ for an excuse to dip early, anyway. These things bore me to tears.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, slipping through the door and into the hallway, trying his best not to touch Miya in the process. His skin still tingles at the proximity. “We wouldn’t have careers without our sponsors.”
“Doesn’t make ‘em any more fun to talk to.” Atsumu shrugs. “So’s that a yes to me takin’ ya home?”
Kiyoomi bites the inside of his cheek. Something in the back of his mind tells him that this, too, might be a mistake.
He doesn’t know what else he can do, though. He can’t stay here at this god forsaken dinner with his lingerie distracting him and Miya being Miya, and he can’t leave here without Miya’s help.
The latter option is at least less public.
At least, that’s how he justifies it to himself.
“Fine. Can you grab my jacket and let Foster know what’s going on? I’ll—I’ll wait by the car.”
Miya nods easily. “Sure think, Omi-Omi! I won’t keep ya waitin’ long.”
Kiyoomi waits until Miya disappears around the corner before he breathes a sigh of relief.
He needs some fresh air. And a minute away from Miya.
The ride back to Kiyoomi’s apartment is much quieter than the trip to the restaurant.
Kiyoomi tries to close his eyes at first, more than willing to let the whole drive pass with him pretending to rest. He opens them less than a minute later when he realizes it only enhances his awareness of the lace pressing into his skin.
He stares out the window instead, trying to ignore Miya’s quick, concerned glances every ten seconds.
He isn’t very successful.
It’s getting harder for him to sit still. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere—hammering in his chest, thrumming under his skin, from his face all the way down to his toes. He catches a glimpse of himself in the car’s side mirror and sees how flushed he is, visible even with only the city’s lights.
It only makes his face burn hotter. Fuck, he looks desperate.
He is desperate, he realizes. He’s pretty sure this is a new low—so horny from his own lingerie and his teammate’s mere presence that he’s faking sick to leave a work event early.
Yeah, he’s faked sick to get out of social situations before, but never because of… this.
He starts to count the blocks left until they reach his apartment. Mostly so he can convince himself he’s thinking about literally anything else.
He’s so relieved to see his building that he nearly tries to jump out of the car while it’s still moving. He keeps his fingers around the handle, ready to yank as soon as they pull into a parking space, ready to put an end to this torturous night—
“Kiyoomi.”
The sound of his own name makes Kiyoomi freeze.
He can’t remember the last time Miya called him by his actual given name. He’s not even certain there was a last time.
“What’s goin’ on with you?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t turn to look at him.
He knows he shouldn’t answer. He knows he should just open the door, say he’s really sick, thanks for the ride, see you at practice—
Fingers brush gently over his upper thigh, and Kiyoomi honest-to-god has to fight back a moan at the touch.
“‘Cause I know yer not really sick, y’know.”
Kiyoomi should shove Miya’s hand away.
He should definitely not be letting it stroke up and down, fingertips brushing against the inner seam of his pants.
His stomach flips.
He doesn’t move.
“What makes you think that?”
Kiyoomi can hear the roughness in his own voice. He already knows the question in place of a denial might as well be an admission that Miya’s right. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Look at me.”
Against his will, Kiyoomi does.
He regrets it instantly.
Miya’s leaned over the center console, one powerful hand still teasing Kiyoomi’s inner thigh. His honeyed gaze is dark, heavy, his smirking lips parted just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet them. Kiyoomi tracks the motion and hates himself for it.
This time, when Miya’s eyes run over Kiyoomi, he can’t help but feel a little like prey caught in a trap.
His traitorous cunt clenches at the thought.
Maybe he can lie to himself, but his body refuses to play along.
It won’t pretend that all of Kiyoomi’s fantasies from the past few months haven’t featured Miya in the starring role. That Kiyoomi doesn’t imagine what Miya’s hands, his lips, his cock would feel like against his skin every time he touches himself. That he didn’t spend last night moaning Miya’s name into a pillow as he fucked himself on a dildo.
That he hasn’t pictured Miya looking at him just like this a million times before.
His body betrays him, and based on how Miya’s smirk widens, he already knows.
“Now, I’ll make ya an offer.” Miya’s hand trails up just a bit farther; Kiyoomi puts a not-inconsiderable amount of effort into resisting the urge to grab it and shove it down his pants himself. “Option one: tell me yer sick, an’ I’ll drive myself home and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
Kiyoomi chews the inside of his cheek.
He should take option one. He should really, really take option one.
“What’s option two?” he asks instead.
Miya stops stroking his thigh and squeezes, hard. Kiyoomi chokes on a gasp, watching as Miya’s eyes flicker to Kiyoomi’s lips as he leans in closer, returning to meet his gaze before he responds.
“Option two: kiss me, an’ I’ll come up to yer apartment and fuck ya however ya want.”
Maybe Kiyoomi is sick. Maybe he caught some bizarre virus and this is a hallucination crafted by his fevered brain. That seems a lot more reasonable than Miya actually propositioning him.
The hand on his thigh certainly feels real, though. So does the way Miya’s looking at him with those intense, hungry eyes.
Kiyoomi swallows, trying to wet his impossibly dry throat. “Why?”
Why me?
Confusion flickers across Miya’s face, like he’s thrown by Kiyoomi’s surprise. “‘Cause I wanted you from the second ya joined the team,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He slips his cocky grin back into place, letting his eyes shift to Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Something about it feels hot, intense, like he’s branding himself into Kiyoomi’s skin with a single look alone.
“An’ because nobody wear lingerie like that unless they’re tryna get fucked.”
Kiyoomi’s eyes go wide. How—
Miya chuckles at his shock. “Relax. The restaurant was dark as fuck, I only noticed in th’ bathroom ‘cause the lights were on and ya got water on yer shirt. Right—“
His eyes flash, a little wicked, right before he lifts his free hand. His thumb brushes right where the cup of Kiyoomi’s bralette meets the strap.
“—Here.”
Kiyoomi stops breathing.
“Black under white’s dangerous, Omi.” Miya smirks. “’S almost like ya wanted someone to see.”
Kiyoomi knows it’s a bad idea.
He knows fucking a coworker can only end poorly.
He knows he’ll regret it the second it’s over.
He still decides that it’s time to stop thinking.
Kiyoomi’s lips crash into Miya’s with a desperation bordering on violence, and Miya meets him without a moment of hesitation.
There’s no tenderness, no slow buildup or teasing. Fuck that. They wield teeth and tongues and lips as tools, weapons to win the war waged between their mouths.
Kiyoomi knows he’s losing the battle.
Every lick into his mouth makes him shiver, each bite drawing a groan from his chest. He buries one hand in bleached blond hair, the other grabbing a fistful of Miya’s shirt, holding on like they’re lifelines, feeling his cunt throb when Miya moans.
He’s never wanted so badly, never needed like this before, like he’s going to combust if he doesn’t get fucked now. He pulls back, breathing hard, just barely holding onto his sanity.
“Time for you to come upstairs and fuck me however I want.”
Miya blinks, spit-slick mouth agape. “Fuck, Omi—“
Maybe this battle is closer to a draw than he’d realized. Kiyoomi tightens his grip on Miya’s shirt, giving him a little shake. “Miya. Now. Before I try to ride you in the back of your terrible fucking car and break one of our necks.”
That kicks Miya’s ass into gear. “Fuck—right!” He rips the keys out of the ignition, kicking his door open hard enough to nearly ding the car next to his as he scrambles out.
Kiyoomi’s whole body flashes hot. Fuck—just how badly does Miya want him? How long had he actually wanted him?
Kiyoomi doesn’t let himself ruminate. There’s more important things to focus on, like getting out of the car, grabbing Miya’s hand, dragging him into the building and up the stairs.
As soon as they’re through Kiyoomi’s front door he’s being manhandled back against it. Miya pins him to the wood with his own body, lips claiming Kiyoomi’s with a fervor that makes Kiyoomi’s knees go weak.
Then Miya slots a thigh between his, and his legs fully turn to jelly.
“Fuck, Miya—“
Strong, sure hands squeeze Kiyoomi’s ass, guiding him to grind back and forth against him. “C’mon, baby—there ya go, just like that—“
Kiyoomi gives in immediately. He starts rolling his hips in earnest, fully humping Miya’s thigh, gasping against his mouth, chasing whatever feels good—and what feels good right now is Miya’s leg rubbing against his pussy, Miya’s hands roaming up and down his body, Miya’s cock burning against his hip, Miya’s breath warm beside his ear.
“God, yer so hot,” he’s growling, low and rough. “Gonna fuck ya ‘till you forget yer own name.“
Kiyoomi squirms, moans echoing in his front hallway. It’s so good—too good—fuck—
He shoves Miya away so abruptly that he stumbles, nearly falling on his ass while Kiyoomi sucks in a deep, shuddery breath, trying to come down from the orgasm that had been moments away from hitting.
Miya waits, smirking, leaving a respectful distance as Kiyoomi makes sure he won’t tip over the edge on his own. “Somethin’ wrong?”
He knows exactly what’s wrong.
Kiyoomi blinks, letting his eyes refocus so he can see Miya properly before he lifts his chin in challenge.
“I didn’t drag you hear to come on your thigh, Miya.”
The other man huffs out a laugh. “Yeah? Seems like ya gotta be more specific about what ya want.”
He steps forward, closing the distance between them. A thumb presses to Kiyoomi’s lower lip.
“’S hard for me to tell when ya seem to want everything.”
Kiyoomi’s fingers close around Miya’s wrist. He’s getting impatient—well, more impatient. “I want what you promised,” he snaps, side-stepping Miya and half-dragging him down the hall.
“So demanding!” Miya laughs, but he lets Kiyoomi dump him onto his bed and kick the bedroom door closed. He leans back on his hands, watching as Kiyoomi’s fingers work quickly over his own shirt’s buttons.
“You’d be demanding too.” Kiyoomi pulls his dress shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it towards the hamper before he starts yanking off his belt. “I’m not the one who’s been a goddamn tease all night.”
Miya blinks, his cheeks abruptly flushing pink as his eyes track Kiyoomi’s movements. His mouth works silently for a second before any words come out. “I’m not—I wasn’t… teasing…”
He trails off, swallowing audibly when Kiyoomi’s pants fall to the floor, and Kiyoomi instantly crashes back into his own head.
The first and only person who’d ever seen him wearing lingerie was a boyfriend in college, right after he’d bought his first set. It was cheap, the lace edging was stiff and a little itchy, but as soon as he put it on he felt different.
He’d felt hot.
He’d felt sexy—something that was pretty foreign to him at the time.
Then he’d pulled off his shirt and saw the pure disgust on his ex’s face at the sight of soft purple satin against Kiyoomi’s skin.
It was enough for Kiyoomi to shove down his love of beautiful undergarments, shame twisting in his gut whenever he so much as walked past a lingerie shop until after he graduated.
It was more than enough for Kiyoomi to swear to himself that his lingerie would only ever be for him and him alone.
His throat burns as Miya stares. He starts to move, wanting to cover himself, steeling for Miya’s laugh, his snort of derision, his sneer of revulsion.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, Miya reaches out to grab his hands, pulling them gently towards him so he can see all of Kiyoomi.
He looks for a long moment with wide eyes, eyes roaming over the swirling black lace of Kiyoomi’s bralette, the panties around his hips, the garter belt hooked to his sheer thigh-high stockings, greedily taking in every detail.
He looks at Kiyoomi like his body is a work of art. Like he’s truly something incredible.
Kiyoomi doesn’t breathe as Miya’s eyes travel back up to his.
“Yer so fuckin’ beautiful, Kiyoomi.”
Something inside of him seems to crack and heal all at once.
Kiyoomi follows easily when Miya pulls him in, turning him to sit on his lap with his back to Miya’s chest, on his knees with spread thighs.
“Perfect, baby, so good for me,” Miya whispers against Kiyoomi’s neck, kissing softly as he runs his fingertips over the lace patterns of the garter, and the energy between them suddenly seems so different. The urgency is still there, the desire, the bone-deep need still trembling in Kiyoomi’s muscles as fingers face his stomach and against the front of his panties, but something is different.
He doesn’t know exactly what changed—why, in spite all of that, he wants to take his time, and why Miya seems to, too.
Miya’s fingers brush his clit through the lace, and he decides to shelve those thoughts for later.
He bucks his hips, desperate for pressure that Miya doesn’t give. He just slides his fingers a little further back, rubbing gently against Kiyoomi’s entrance through soaked fabric.
“Fuck.” Miya’s hips twitch, pressing his hard length up against Kiyoomi’s ass. “God, sweetheart, yer so wet—can I move these? I wanna touch ya, want my fingers inside ya—“
“Yes, yes,” Kiyoomi gasps, nails digging into where he’s grabbing Miya’s thighs, spreading his own legs wider.
Miya groans at the sight, sliding two fingers under the edge of the lace and tugging the panties to the side before he slips them between Kiyoomi’s folds—not pushing in yet, but drawing long strokes up and down, spreading slick over his swollen clit with each caress.
Kiyoomi starts to rock his hips, encouraging Miya to move a little faster, use a little more pressure, slip his fingers into Kiyoomi’s hole a little more with each stroke.
“Can’t believe how perfect ya are,” Miya marvels, massaging Kiyoomi’s clit in tiny circles. “Wanted ya for so long, never thought I stood a chance.”
Kiyoomi’s head falls back against Miya’s shoulder. He’s moaning on every exhale, rough and needy, pleasure pooling between his legs as clever fingers carefully work him up. “Wan’ned you.”
“Hmm?”
Kiyoomi doesn’t have the brainpower to figure out if Miya’s teasing or he genuinely couldn’t understand Kiyoomi’s mumbled words. “Wanted you,” he repeats, trying to enunciate around the mounting pleasure. “Thought about you, Atsumu, fantasized about you—oh, fuck—“
Kiyoomi’s mouth drops open as those two fingers slide deep into his cunt, curling to stroke his walls as a thumb slips back and forth over his clit.
“Oh, I’m Atsumu now?” he hears, soft and teasing in his ear. “That what ya moan when ya fantasize?”
Kiyoomi squirms, far past shame. “Mmmyes—“
“Yeah?” Atsumu echoes. His free hand slides up from Kiyoomi’s hip towards his chest. “How long’ve ya been screaming’ my name when you come?”
Kiyoomi shakes. His entire body is reduced to only sensation, only responding to Atsumu’s ministrations. He can’t think straight—he can barely think at all. “I don’t—don’t know—oh, fuck, fuck—!”
He almost wails when Atsumu pinches a nipple through the lace, cunt clenching around the fingers stuffed inside.
“Gettin’ close for me, baby?”
Kiyoomi can only moan helplessly in response. It’s all so overwhelming, so good—
Everything stops.
A betrayed sob falls from Kiyoomi’s lips, still writhing on Atsumu’s lap as his hands pull away at the last possible second before Kiyoomi’s climax hits. “Atsumu—“
“Sorry, gorgeous,” Atsumu whispers, not sounding sorry in the slightest. One of his arms loops around Kiyoomi’s waist, holding him steady. The other disappears between their bodies.
The sound of a zipper sends a delicious shiver down Kiyoomi’s spine.
“Just wanna give ya what I promised, right?”
“Fuck—please—“
Teeth brush against Kiyoomi’s neck—Atsumu’s smiling at his desperation. He can’t really find it in himself to care. Not when Atsumu raises his hips and inches his pants down, not when he can feel the heat of Atsumu’s bare cock radiating between his spread legs, so fucking close to where he needs it.
The arm around Kiyoomi’s middle tightens when he tries to grind back. Atsumu chuckles at his frustrated whine.
“D’ya have condoms, sweetheart?”
Kiyoomi whines again, eyes falling shut. “Don’t wanna,” he slurs. He feels like he’s falling apart already, worked to the edge twice and now made to wait. “Wanna feel you…”
Atsumu curses, biting at Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Fuck. Okay, okay—yer clean? On th’ pill?”
Kiyoomi can feel desperate tears forming in his eyes. “Yes, fuck—“
“Alright, baby, I gotcha.”
Atsumu shifts, arms tightening as he moves Kiyoomi with him, and he doesn’t know why—
“Open yer eyes for me, Kiyoomi.”
He does.
His breath catches in his throat.
Atsumu’s angled them so they’re facing the full-length mirror propped next to his bedroom door, forcing Kiyoomi face-to-face with their forms.
Fuck, he’s a mess. His hair is rumpled, careful styling destroyed by eager hands. His eyes are hazy, heavy-lidded, lips swollen and parted, with a flush crawling from his face down to the top edge of his bralette’s cups. The black lace is stark against his pink-tinged skin, moving with his chest on every inhale like it’s painted onto him, the delicate whorls and soft curves juxtaposed with the sharp angles of his collarbone, his shoulders, his abs.
Atsumu’s arm around his waist hides all but the bottom edge of the garter belt, his tan skin shining gold against Kiyoomi’s stomach as his fingers toy lightly with the panties against Kiyoomi’s hip. The sharp V of the underwear is distorted where they’re pulled to the side, baring Kiyoomi’s shiny-wet cunt between spread, stocking-clad legs, inner thighs smeared with slick. Atsumu’s cock is just beneath him, already dripping a thin string of precome onto his trousers.
Fuck. He’s still fully dressed—his suit jacket’s gone, dropped somewhere in the foyer, but his dress shirt only has the top three buttons undone with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, his pants only pushed down to just below his balls. He’s hooked his chin over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, blond hair mussed, lust-dark eyes watching with rapt attention as Kiyoomi takes in the sight, a smirk playing on his lips.
They look like artwork. Models. Porn stars.
Kiyoomi’s never felt hotter in his fucking life.
Atsumu tilts his head, hair tickling Kiyoomi’s cheek. “Have ya ever watched yerself like this before?” he whispers, holding Kiyoomi’s gaze in the glass.
Kiyoomi shakes his head, biting his lower lip. He watches in the mirror as Atsumu presses his tip against Kiyoomi’s entrance without pushing in, sliding over his cunt and against his clit.
On the bed, Kiyoomi choked out a gasp at the sensation.
“Good.” Atsumu does that motion again, then again, setting a rhythm, teasing Kiyoomi with each slick grind. “I want ya to watch, baby. I want ya to see how fuckin’ gorgeous ya are when you come. D’ya wanna do that for me?”
Fuck, Kiyoomi does. He nods dizzily, still biting his lip, not trusting himself to speak.
The arm unwraps from around his waist, moving for Atsumu to press his thumb to Kiyoomi’s lower lip, gently pulling it free from his teeth.
“None of that,” Atsumu chastises softly, breath catching a little when Kiyoomi’s lips wrap around his finger. He’s still rubbing against Kiyoomi, so close to what he’s craving. He lets his arm fall back to Kiyoomi’s waist, drawing his hips back a little. “I wanna hear ya when yer moanin’ my name.”
Whatever response Kiyoomi might’ve had evaporates when Atsumu slowly pushes into him.
Kiyoomi completely loses his mind.
“Oh fuck, fuck—“ he chokes, thrashing in Atsumu’s iron grip. He’s desperate to move, desperate to fuck himself on the thick cock splitting him open, bigger than even his largest toy, desperate to have his pussy stretched and stuffed full.
Atsumu doesn’t let him. He releases the base of his cock once the tip is inside, gripping Kiyoomi’s chin as he rolls his hips up with agonizing care, sliding into Kiyoomi’s dripping pussy a millimeter at a time.
Kiyoomi doesn’t realize he’d shut his eyes until Atsumu’s lips brush against his. It only lasts a moment before his head is turned forward again, facing the mirror.
“Just watch,” Atsumu murmurs. “Gonna make it good for ya, I promise.”
Kiyoomi can’t help the whimper of need that slips out, even as he forces himself to be still. He keeps his eyes trained on where he’s stretched around Atsumu, clit peeking out from between parted lips as he takes Atsumu deeper and deeper. He’s mesmerized, watching how his muscles spasm around the intrusion, squeezing and trembling as slick drips down Atsumu’s shaft. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this, so turned on he’s throbbing with it.
They let out twin sighs when Atsumu bottoms out. Kiyoomi can hear Atsumu’s shaky breathing in his ear, watches in the mirror as he shuts his eyes for a moment and swallows.
When he opens them again, there’s an edge of mania to his stare.
“Ready, baby?”
Kiyoomi nods, clenching around Atsumu. Fuck, he’s so deep—
Atsumu draws back, nearly all the way out, and slams back in.
Kiyoomi screams.
“That’s what I wanna hear,” Atsumu purrs, smug as he lets his hands move to Kiyoomi’s hips, holding on as he sets a pace just on the right side of too deep, too much, and Kiyoomi is left to desperately try to keep up.
He puts his thighs to work.
He leans back, raising one arm to wrap a hand around the back of Atsumu’s neck as he starts to bounce up and down on his cock, matching the rhythm with deceptive ease.
In the mirror, Atsumu’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight, Kiyoomi’s lean, long muscles on full display.
“God, yer so fuckin’ sexy, holy shit,” he rambles, mouth running away from him even now. “Takin’ my cock like yer built for it, so tight for me—“
Kiyoomi whimpers, flush deepening, the heat of his face reflected back at him as he rides Atsumu like he’s getting paid for it.
Dirty talk’s never really been his thing—he feels awkward saying it, and he always figured if his partner’s able to talk it’s a sign he’s not trying hard enough—but hearing it in Atsumu’s drawl is an entirely new experience. He babbles praise into Kiyoomi’s ear with every breath like he can’t help it, like he barely knows what he’s saying, talking because he doesn’t know how to stop.
Kiyoomi doesn’t want him to stop. Atsumu could keep going like this for the rest of their lives and it still wouldn’t be enough.
“Fuck, ya feel so good,” Atsumu continues, lifting a hand to press two fingers between Kiyoomi’s parted lips.
He closes automatically around them, rolling his tongue around the slick-coated digits, pulling them deeper like he’s sucking cock. Fuck, it should be disgusting, licking his own taste off Atsumu’s fingers, but it only makes him moan louder, only makes his pussy throb and clench harder as he watches himself let Atsumu fill both his cunt and his mouth.
“Perfect, just like that, sweetheart, get ‘em nice an’ wet.”
Kiyoomi groans, drool running down his chin, nearly gagging when he tries to take Atsumu in too deep, and he thinks he could maybe come like this, maybe, as long as Atsumu doesn’t stop—
The fingers abruptly pull out.
Kiyoomi whines, a wordless complaint at the loss, the sudden emptiness, until those spit-slick fingers rub over his clit.
Oh, fuck.
“Atsumu,” he gasps, scrabbling with his free hand to grab the other man’s wrist just in case he thinks about moving it away. “Atsumu, fuck—“
Atsumu laughs, soft and breathless. “Feels good, baby?” He doesn’t change the pace, stroking rhythmic patterns in time with his thrusts. “Sure looks like it.”
Kiyoomi forces himself to meet his own glazed eyes in the mirror, taking it all in—his open mouth as Atsumu forces out moans with each breath, his trembling arms, his iron grip on Atsumu’s wrist, the desperate movements of his lower body as he tries to fuck himself even harder. He almost has to look away when he sees the mess of slick shining wetly on Atsumu’s pants, utterly ruining the black fabric.
“‘Ssogood,” he slurs, mouth not quite working how he wants.
Atsumu curses softly, a little strained. “God, yer so perfect.” His free hand climbs back up Kiyoomi’s chest, hesitating just below the band of his bralette. “Can I touch ya here again, darlin’?”
Kiyoomi’s head feels heavy, filled with cotton. He nods, barely hearing the question. He’d agree to anything Atsumu says right now.
Fingers close around his nipple over the soft lace, pinching and rolling gently, and Kiyoomi’s brain starts to melt.
“‘Mgonnacome,” he mumbles, words running together, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Yeah? Wanna come for me?”
Atsumu’s voice sounds ragged, raw, like he’s just as close.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi moans, the heat between his legs growing and growing and growing. “Yes, yes—“
“Go on, baby.” Atsumu pinches his nipple just a bit harder, letting his hips and fingers continue to work their magic on Kiyoomi’s swollen cunt. “Come on my cock like a good boy.”
Kiyoomi doesn’t have a choice.
His last conscious decision is to turn his head, forcing his mouth against Atsumu’s right as his orgasm rips through him so hard his vision goes white.
He can’t see, can’t hear, can only feel Atsumu fucking him through it, fingers massaging his clit, rolling his nipple as his cunt pulses through wave after crashing wave of pleasure, his entire body shaking, moaning Atsumu’s name against his lips as he comes.
He’s vaguely aware of Atsumu gasping into his mouth, motions going a little erratic as his own climax hits, cock jerking inside of Kiyoomi as he works them both through it, drawing it out for a momentary eternity.
It feels like hours before it’s over.
Kiyoomi collapses against Atsumu’s chest, completely wrung out, twitching with little aftershocks. Atsumu’s arms wrap around his middle, keeping Kiyoomi from sliding clean off his lap as they both gasp for breath.
“Holy fuck,” Kiyoomi mumbles, once he’s regained the power of speech. He still can’t open his eyes. They feel too heavy, exhaustion pulling at every one of his muscles.
“Holy fuck,” Atsumu agrees. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to Kiyoomi’s again. It’s soft, gentle. Tender.
It surprises Kiyoomi a little.
He kisses Atsumu back.
He feels them shift again, grimacing a little when Atsumu pulls out. His pussy clenches when cum leaks out, mixing with his own slick as it trickles down his thighs.
“C’mon, baby, let’s getcha up,” Atsumu murmurs, ignoring Kiyoomi’s protest as he helps him to stand.
Kiyoomi’s knee joints ache a little from their position, his thighs burning from the exertion, but he doesn’t strictly need Atsumu’s arm wrapped around his waist as they move to the bathroom.
He doesn’t see the need to tell Atsumu that, though.
Kiyoomi keeps his eyes closed as he unclips and removes his stockings, as he tugs off his panties and garter belt, as he shoos Atsumu away after a minute of struggling with the bra clasp to undo it himself.
He keeps them closed as Atsumu undresses beside him and turns on the shower, checking the water temperature before leading Kiyoomi inside.
He keeps them closed as he rinses shampoo out of his hair, as Atsumu cleans them both with Kiyoomi’s body wash, as Atsumu towels them dry.
He keeps them closed as they collapse onto Kiyoomi’s bed, as their bodies find one another, as Atsumu’s mouth moves softly against Kiyoomi’s lips, his throat, his chest, his abs, his hips, his thighs.
He keeps them closed as Atsumu's curious tongue slips between his folds and over his clit, licking soft, patient strokes until Kiyoomi is coming for a second time, then a third, his hands buried in Atsumu's damp hair, Atsumu's name on his lips.
He keeps them closed, because he’s scared he’ll wake up from this dream if he doesn’t.
The bed beside him dips. An arm falls over his side, pulling him a little closer.
Warm. Solid. Real.
Kiyoomi blinks his eyes open.
Atsumu gazes back at him, sleepy and content and very much here. “Hi.”
It’s all too easy for Kiyoomi to imagine waking up next to Atsumu like this.
He thinks he’d like that.
“Hi,” he whispers back.
Atsumu bites his lip, like he’s fighting back a smirk, teasing even now. “Ya missed it, y’know.”
Kiyoomi frowns. Missed…?
Atsumu’s battle against his grin fails. “Ya closed yer eyes when you came. Missed the whole ending.”
Kiyoomi tries to roll his eyes, but he already feels himself starting to smile, too. His head is still pleasantly fuzzy, a little drunk on dopamine. “I’ll try harder next time.”
He doesn’t realize what he’s said until Atsumu’s eyes widen, a little glint behind them.
“So there’s gonna be a next time?”
Kiyoomi remembers the moments before he kissed Atsumu, when he was absolutely certain he’d regret this in the post-orgasm clarity.
He’d been wrong.
His real regret would be letting Atsumu slip through his fingers.
“How about we discuss it over breakfast?”
Atsumu shrugs, eyes still glittering. “That depends. Are ya askin’ me on a date right now?”
He’s going to make Kiyoomi say it.
Kiyoomi can’t even try to convince himself he’s irritated instead of charmed.
“Yes, Atsumu. I’m asking you on a date.”
Atsumu’s face breaks into a smile—not a cocky, teasing grin, not a smirk, but a true, beaming smile that feels a little like looking into the sun.
“In that case, I’d love to grab breakfast with ya! Any other meal, too—hell, anything’ ya want.” Atsumu nestles into his pillow, eyes soft and happy. “I wasn’t just sayin’ shit when I told ya I’ve been crazy about you since ya joined the Jackals, Omi.”
Kiyoomi thinks about the past few months. All of the flirting he’d assumed wasn’t real. All of the banter, the touches he’d secretly craved, the fantasies he’d told himself would never be a reality.
All of his dismissals of what was right in front of him.
All of it proven wrong because of a set of lingerie and a bad decision.
Maybe it was a mistake to wear it to the dinner, but he can’t really bring himself to regret it now as he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Atsumu’s lips.
“You know, I think I’ve been crazy about you, too.”