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Kiyoomi stands pinned to the wall on the opposite end of the kitchen. His hands are folded together behind his back, knuckles digging into the base of his spine. He’s attempting to use the discomfort to suppress what he’s actually feeling while staring at his boyfriend from across the room.
Kiyoomi is pissed.
He’s beyond pissed.
See, Kiyoomi has been preparing the house for hosting tonight’s gathering.
A housewarming party.
They’d been shopping the market for months. Kiyoomi stepped through the doors of what felt like hundreds of house tours, and he managed to find something he didn’t like about each one. Then he walked through the doors of this place. He liked how clean it looked, how all the open spaces made sense. He enjoyed the big windows, and how the backyard was enclosed with walls of stone and dense patches of foliage.
He was rendered speechless. Atsumu wired the cash offer only days later.
Fast forward six months of moving in, Atsumu mentioned he wanted to invite some friends and family over to see their new place.
Kiyoomi thought about it for a spell. He decided he kind of liked the vision of people gathering in their curated space. just for a little while, so long as they weren’t messy. And didn’t touch the art. Why do people always touch the art?
So he said yes. He even offered to host (after Atsumu had fucked him silly in the shower and made dinner). Kiyoomi isn’t big on hosting, but even he knows that basic hosting etiquette is one of those things that just makes sense.
Kiyoomi got in touch with an event coordinator. They set a date and sent invitations. The guest list was quaint—if thirty or forty of your friends and colleagues is considered quaint—but having the extra hands to keep things neat and orderly made Kiyoomi feel at ease.
It was all going so well. Everyone rsvp’d, the menu was decided, and they had just finished with the new art wall in the sitting room. Kiyoomi found himself looking forward to this event, almost.
Roughly two weeks before the party, Atsumu and Kiyoomi got into it. They’d been too busy to be with each other, and that made them frustrated, because they crave each other the way lungs need air. What the fight was originally about, Kiyoomi doesn’t really remember now. They went back and forth, nit picking at things that didn’t really bother them in the moment, but became relevant when looked at with an angry lens. Then Atsumu revealed he didn’t like the dessert option on the menu, and Kiyoomi lost it.
They fought, they yelled, they fussed and cussed.
“Stop actin’ like a fuckin’ brat,” Atsumu roared and slammed his balled up shirt to the floor.
“I’m only hosting this stupid party for you, you ungrateful prick.” Kiyoomi snapped. As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back. He didn’t mean it, really, it’s just that Atsumu was winding him up, and he’d been talking nonstop about how excited he was to have everyone see the home that they’d built, and a pressure weighed down on Kiyoomi’s shoulders to make it perfect. He likes perfect, and he likes Atsumu.
Kiyoomi stared at him with wide eyes and heavy breaths and waited for Atsumu to do what he usually did. Cross the room and crash his fury into Kiyoomi through a burning kiss. His stomach flipped at the thought and he braced for impact. But Atsumu said nothing. He turned around and stormed out of the room.
He came back later that night and apologized with his shoulders low and that cute wrinkle in his forehead that he gets when he knows he’s being a brute. And after that, he smothered Kiyoomi in gentle kisses and touches.
So they kissed and made up. Great. But that isn’t the point.
The point is, since then, they haven’t had sex. Atsumu has only touched Kiyoomi innocently, with ghosting touches that are polite and restrained, the way he used to in the beginning. Atsumu always kept a distance that made Kiyoomi’s nerves twitch. He used to think he was irritated that Atsumu was so close. Then he realized he was mad because Atsumu wasn’t close enough.
Kiyoomi has tried everything. In the bits of free time that he’s had leading up to this party, he’s made Atsumu dinner. He’s snuggled into his lap. He put on one of Atsumu’s shirts and walked around with his legs bare in front of all those big windows.
Nothing.
Kiyoomi glares across the room. He figured Atsumu would be struggling. He always melts against Kiyoomi’s kisses and digs his fingers into his hair, his arms, his hips, anywhere he can grip tight. He folds like wet paper whenever Kiyoomi gives him those big bedroom eyes and plays coy, or tries to wiggle out of Atsumu’s grip like he doesn’t want to be there (and he very much wants to be there).
But Atsumu looks fine. Too fine. He’s greeting his brother and laughing with Aran. His shoulders are relaxed and his hands are wrapped around a glass the way they should be around Kiyoomi’s throat, or thighs, or ankles.
Kiyoomi is fucking furious, because Atsumu is seemingly unbothered that they haven’t had sex.
Meanwhile, Kiyoomi is questioning his reality, and his sanity, and everything in between. His love bruises and bites are all faded. Faded!
He grits his teeth and digs harder into his spine.
He’s embarrassed, because he’s reached a point of desperation that he put on the lacy black lingerie he swore to Atsumu he’d never wear. He remembers staring at it with disdain. Cute panties were one thing. But this was a clown suit. A very thin, very exposed clown suit.
He’s embarrassed, because once Atsumu went downstairs to prepare for guests to arrive, Kiyoomi shut the bathroom door and stared at himself in the mirror, dressed in his so called clown suit, and loved what he saw. He twisted and twirled and showed off his assets in the mirror. Maybe if he thought about it hard enough, and clear enough, Atsumu would feel his neediness and come running. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers on the spot where Atsumu would place his hand, moaning into Kiyoomi’s ear about how sexy it is to feel himself through his belly. He imagined Atsumu’s hands on his skin, lips hot against his ear, whispering sweet nothings that make Kiyoomi’s spine tingle.
Kiyoomi dragged his hands across his own skin to mimic the ways Atsumu would touch him. He snaked his hand south and palmed himself through that teeny lace. He tugged and teased at his chest the way Atsumu would, chewed on his lip the way Atsumu would. He sank to his knees and worked three lubed fingers into his ass the way Atsumu would, but none of it worked.
It didn’t feel right when it wasn’t Atsumu, who could reach the deepest parts of Kiyoomi and stretch them full. He needed Atsumu, who could satiate the burning ache in a spot between his hips and back and make him see stars. Kiyoomi pathetically whimpered through an attempt to find a release with thoughts of Atsumu, but since he’s had the real thing, imagination wasn’t enough.
He was out of time and patience, so he pulled his clothes on and scrubbed his hands in the sink until he was sure Atsumu wouldn’t suspect anything. He tried not to avoid Atsumu’s intense gaze as he joined him downstairs to greet the staff. Atsumu looped an arm around his waist as their friends were spotted walking up the driveway.
He leaned over to Kiyoomi and planted a long kiss at the corner of his lip. “Let’s have fun tonight, hm?” His voice was warm, and it stole all the air from Kiyoomi’s lungs.
Kiyoomi has always known that somewhere inside of him is a torch that burns for Atsumu, but right now feels akin to a forest fire.
“Omi-san? Are you alright?”
Kiyoomi flattens his hands against his back and bumps into the wall to knock him back to reality. Hinata is looking at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi responds coolly, shifting his weight to mask the tremor running through his body. “How’s the mocktail?”
Hinata straightens his back and holds up the narrow glass filled with mint leaves and a lime wedge. “Yummy! Tsumu says you picked out the menu. I like your tastes, Omi-san.”
Kiyoomi’s offers a small nod in return. “Of course. Try the blackberry one, too. It’s my favorite.”
“He’s right. The blackberry is delicious,” Akaashi cuts in with a smile. He’s standing next to Komori and Bokuto, both of them holding small plates with finger foods.
Hinata continues to babble, asking Kiyoomi questions about the new house—how they found it, how they’re liking it, how moving went. Kiyoomi welcomes the distraction. He tells them the backstory, minus some details. Bokuto asks if they have any other plans to change the current layout. His eyes sparkle when Kiyoomi says they’re planning to add a gym in one of the vacant rooms being used as remaining storage.
Komori compliments what they’ve done with the moss wall installation along the stairwell.
It’s a little easier to breathe in this small circle of friendly faces.
“What’s your favorite part of the house, Omi?” Bokuto asks.
Kiyoomi flexes his hands in thought. His mind races through the memories he and Atsumu have made so far in this new home.
He likes their bedroom, where Atsumu hovers over him in the mornings and kisses him slow. He likes the office, filled with a library of books and all their trophies and medals and other achievements. There’s a scratch in the top corner of the desk from when Kiyoomi grabbed a paperweight for purchase as Atsumu bent him over. They hide it with a plant. Kiyoomi really likes the backyard—there’s a seating pit when a projector screen and the acoustics are great for keeping noise in. All kinds of noise.
But there’s one space Kiyoomi likes best of all.
“The kitchen,” Kiyoomi answers gently.
There’s a fondness in the way he says it, eyes roaming the light and clean countertops, neatly arranged with trays of snacks for guests and light decor. He remembers watching Atsumu get into it with the contractor because he complained about how much work it would take to redo the wiring for under cabinet lighting. Kiyoomi told him to let it go—the look Atsumu gave him went straight through his heart.
He likes the gentle light that floats throughout the open space during the day, with a pretty sunset that hits just right. The kitchen is the place where he and Atsumu spend the most time together, at least outside of the bedroom. Atsumu makes Kiyoomi’s tea and while it steeps, pins Kiyoomi to the cool counter and retraces all his little moles and freckles.
Kiyoomi’s eyes float about the room. This house feels clean, and lived in, and warm. Everywhere there are clusters of friends and family all chatting away, enjoying food and drink at a mellow volume. He understands now, why Atsumu wanted to host. To show off their little paradise, how the life they’ve built together is theirs, and it’s perfect.
Kiyoomi worked hard to bring this party together, and it’s everything he envisioned. Better than that, maybe.
Atsumu is happy. And despite himself, Kiyoomi can’t fight the small smile that tugs at his lip.
He feels it then, a harsh tug in his chest that draws his gaze past Komori and across the room.
Atsumu is staring at him over the rim of his class, free hand tucked in his pocket. His honey colored eyes are locked on Kiyoomi with an intensity that makes Kiyoomi acutely aware of the straps of his garter belt rubbing against his slacks.
Atsumu’s gaze tears through him, eyes walking Kiyoomi’s body from head to toe like he can see right through the fabric of his clothes. His jaw sets in a hard line, crunching over an ice cube wedged between his teeth.
Kiyoomi’s blood rushes south from his head to his groin so fast he gets dizzy. He can feel the heat between his legs starting to swell and breathes in deep. His insides are twitching and writhing, and if Atsumu keeps staring at him like that, he’s not going to make it through this party.
It’s not fucking fair. It’s taking everything in Kiyoomi’s body to stand upright and put on this poker face. There’s a tension that stretches between them only made sharper when Atsumu gives a single nod to his brother and starts to weave toward Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi panics and shuffles himself away from the wall. He’s overwhelmed with the feeling of needing Atsumu, so much that his composure is slipping. One of the coordinators rips him from his internal battle by touching gently on his shoulder.
“Apologies, Sakusa-san, for interrupting. We’re ready to begin dinner, if you’d like to give everyone the announcement.”
Kiyoomi swipes his hands across his shirt and clears his throat. “Thank you.”
On cue, as if Atsumu had heard the conversation across the room, he pivots on his heel and turns his back to Kiyoomi with his arms outstretched, calling for the room’s attention. “Dinner is about to be served everyone. If you could start—”
Kiyoomi doesn’t hear the rest. Komori is waiting for him politely, but Kiyoomi’s lungs are running out of oxygen. “Be there in a minute,” he huffs, “need to speak with the caterers.”
He doesn’t look back when he beelines to the corner of the kitchen while Atsumu is distracted. He pushes through a small door in the back corner that leads to the prep kitchen. “I need the room please,” he says a bit urgently.
The three staff members hurriedly gather the rest of their food trays and make themselves scarce. “We’re just wrapping up,” they reply, scooping what they can into their arms and heading for the door.
Kiyoomi shuts the door behind them and slumps against the counter with a groan. He tugs at the collar of his shirt to gather more air against his skin. It isn’t enough, so he starts to pick apart the buttons, exposing the lace of the hideously adorable bra pressed tight to his skin. He’s hot, and twitchy, and the pull of Atsumu’s stare has him pinching his thighs together and counting by prime numbers to calm down.
Oh god. He drops his head forward and groans, digging his fist into the countertop. This is pathetic of him, being so touch starved from Atsumu that he can’t even make it through a simple evening.
He’s supposed to be excited about people enjoying the menu, and admiring their time and dedication. He’s supposed to be Atsumu’s arm candy, while Atsumu struggles not to touch him because he knows Kiyoomi doesn’t like public displays of affection.
Right now, Kiyoomi would tell Atsumu he was a fucking voyeur if it meant he’d touch him.
“I hate you,” Kiyoomi mumbles under his breath. He angles and twitches his hips, trying to find some semblance of pleasure enough to fix his composure.
“Surely ya don’t mean that.”
Kiyoomi’s stomach drops. He sucks in a sharp breath that tangles in his throat and hunches forward, trying to bring his shirt back over his shoulders, but it’s too late.
Atsumu is staring at him with wide eyes.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Kiyoomi bites, leaning on the remnants of his fury to keep his tone from slipping into pleasure.
Atsumu takes a long swig from his glass before setting it in the sink with a light tap. “Anyone could have walked in here and seen ya like this,” he says slowly, voice edging with something sinister as he takes three long strides to cross the room. “Ya realize that, right? Anyone?”
Kiyoomi hugs his shirt close to his chest. Guilt runs through him, and that angers him, because he shouldn’t be feeling guilty. This is all Atsumu’s fault that he’s thrown caution to the wind and is standing here all rumpled and flustered.
He swallows thick and moves to hurriedly redo the buttons on his shirt. Atsumu takes one last step to close the gap between them and snatches his wrist with warning. He uses the pad of his thumb to smooth along the inside of Kiyoomi’s wrist and to his palm. His free hand moves Kiyoomi’s unbuttoned shirt out of the way and ogles at the pretty lace stretched across his chest and stomach, disappearing beneath his slacks.
There’s this thing Atsumu does when he’s admiring Kiyoomi, where he takes his time, and his mind savors every step of how he’s going to pull Kiyoomi apart, because once he actually gets his hands on him, he lets desire take over.
“Here I am, on my best behavior, and yer walkin’ around with this on.” Atsumu wedges a knee between Kiyoomi’s thighs and slowly, deliberately, sinks their hips together against the counter. “Reckless.. If anyone else saw ya like this I’d have to kill ‘em—”
“You’ve been doing this on purpose?!” Kiyoomi can’t help the shrill in his voice.
Atsumu’s smile turns sly. “Ya said I was ungrateful.” His free hand uses a single finger to trace a line on the exposed skin of Kiyoomi’s belly, nimbly undoing the button on his slacks with a soft pop. “I was tryna show ya how serious I was about yer party planning.”
Kiyoomi goes still. He does remember saying that. He even remembers Atsumu putting that somewhere in his apology that night. Damn it. One menu mix up didn’t need to lead to celibacy. Kiyoomi didn’t think Atsumu believed in celibacy!
He stiffens as Atsumu tugs slow on the zipper of his pants. Atsumu lets go of Kiyoomi’s wrist and slowly, deliberately works his pants off of his hips, letting them fall away to reveal a cute white bow at the top of his panties, an intricate lace pattern wrapped about his thighs.
“Fucking hell, Omi,” Atsumu hisses. He grips hard against Kiyoomi’s thigh, thumb pressing down in the divot of his panty line. “Ya say ya hate me and then ya do this…”
Kiyoomi’s brain scrambles. Atsumu’s hands are warm, snapping the stretch of the lace against his skin and smoothing over the sting.
“This isn’t—I wasn’t—” Kiyoomi stammers, “You apologized. You said you were sorry you—it’s been two weeks,” he wheezes. His chest is tight, lungs collapsing as Atsumu’s fingertips press against his ribcage and walk the line of his bra. He drops his eyes to the obvious straining of Kiyoomi’s cock against the fabric and wets his bottom lip, snagging it between his teeth. “Ya said I was too distracting, Omi.”
Kiyoomi’s breath hitches when Atsumu’s hand drags blunt nails across his thigh, supporting Omi’s weight as he pulls his legs open. “Cut that out—I didn’t say—”
“Ya did. So I listened. I’ve been good. Wanted ya to see how happy I am that ya put all this effort in…”
Atsumu presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss against Kiyoomi’s chest, then lower, and lower still, blowing cool air against the white bow sitting neatly against his cockhead. “My pretty Omi.” Atsumu stops just shy of sinking teeth into flesh at a spot of exposed skin. “My sexy Omi,” his words buzz against Kiyoomi’s inner thigh.
“Stop it,” Kiyoomi whines and twitches his hips, begging for Atsumu to shred the thin lace from his skin.
Atsumu works himself north, fingertips digging just hard enough into Kiyoomi’s hips to hold him steady, but not hard enough to form bruises the way Kiyoomi likes. He gasps when he feels Atsumu through his slacks, pressed against his thigh. He’s hard, which Kiyoomi should take as triumph, but all he wants is to hear the sound of Atsumu’s zipper being pulled south. His chest rises and falls rapidly. He drops his eyes to Atsumu’s hands and chews his lip. Atsumu’s quarter rolled sleeves are sitting neatly on his forearms, large hands guiding Kiyoomi’s waist into a slow roll that rubs them together.
“Atsumu—!” Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut.
Touch me. Fuck me. Need me.
He shouts the words in his head, but his throat works around nothing.
It’s shameful enough that he succumbed to wearing this skimpy outfit. That Atsumu caught him wearing it. That he wanted Atsumu to catch him wearing it. He’s furious that Atsumu went two weeks deliberately keeping him at arm’s length, and now that he knows Kiyoomi is out of sorts, is teasing him about it.
He can’t damn well admit he likes it.
Atsumu hums in resignation as he sucks on Kiyoomi’s earlobe. “I promised to be good,” he purrs. His hands begin to slide away from Kiyoomi’s waist, as if he’s about to take a step backwards.
There’s a sharp, sudden sting of cool air as Atsumu’s grip loosens.
“Don’t!” Kiyoomi yelps before he can stop himself. The reaction startles himself and turns his cheeks a bright scarlet.
Atsumu stills, hands returning to their spot. He swipes a contemplative thumb across Kiyoomi’s hip bone. “What is it, Omi? What should I do?”
There’s a quiet beat as Kiyoomi debates his response. He should make Atsumu grovel. Put him on his knees and tease him until he can barely sit still, and when he’s just about at his limit, send him out to suffer in front of the entire house of guests.
It’s only fair, given how Kiyoomi has been dealing for the last hour or so.
But Atsumu is pressed against him, rutting his erection against Kiyoomi’s and chewing on his lip. His eyes are glowing, and he looks starved. Almost like he too is at his limit.
Kiyoomi grits his teeth. The rational part of him goes to tell Atsumu that he’s in the doghouse until further notice.
The rest of him bets they can make up for two weeks in the next five to ten minutes.
Kiyoomi reaches his hand out and grabs the chest of Atsumu’s shirt, crushing their mouths together clumsily. Atsumu jolts, a hand flying out to secure himself against the countertop, the other palming the round of Kiyoomi’s ass cheek to keep him upright. He knocks their hips together in a collision that makes them both shudder.
Kiyoomi pulls off their kiss just enough to see the look of surprise on Atsumu’s face. “Stop behaving,” he demands, throwing caution to the wind, “I want you now.”
Kiyoomi sees it then. The twinkle that forms in Atsumu’s eyes whenever he’s at his limit, when he’s done soaking in the fantasy of Kiyoomi and he’s ready to devour the real thing.
Atsumu exhales a breathy laugh. “I should piss ya off more often.”
“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi snarls.
“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees and slants their mouths together.
Fucking finally.
Kiyoomi’s limbs fly out to wrap Atsumu closer to his frame and swallow his greedy tongue. He uses the leverage of the countertop to grind down on Atsumu’s cock, fabric to fabric. The ache Kiyoomi has felt amplifies through his thighs and deep into his joints when Atsumu moans into his mouth.
“Fuck, Omi,” Atsumu breaks their kiss to dip his head into the crook of his neck, kissing the hollow of his throat. One of his hands reaches for purchase on a bottle of coconut oil conveniently placed against the wall of the counter. “We don’t have enough time, I hate rushing—!”
“Make it enough,” Kiyoomi swallows a whine as Atsumu pulls off one of his bra straps with his teeth, guiding a pink nipple into his mouth.
“As ya wish.” Atsumu wedges Kiyoomi’s panties to the side and draws a leg up to work him open. As he pushes a slick digit inside, he stops dead in his tracks.
Shades of scarlet bloom across Kiyoomi’s cheeks.
“My god,” Atsumu breathes, fingers sliding into Kiyoomi’s hole with relative ease, “babydoll, is this why ya took so long to join me downstairs?”
“Stop it, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi warns, his skin pink from the tips of his ears down to his chest. “I’m still mad at you.”
Kiyoomi’s ever growing list of reasons to be temporarily mad at Atsumu gains another. He’s not moving fast enough. Kiyoomi wants to be fucking stuffed full already.
Atsumu tilts him into a searing kiss. “Then be mad. Ya still want me.”
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes to hide how his stomach lurches.
Atsumu’s excitement grows critical as he stretches the soft pink skin of Kiyoomi’s hole. A few pulses of his fingers and there’s a familiar wet slide that has Kiyoomi’s hips rolling in a circle. “Ugh, the sounds yer hole makes for me, baby,” Atsumu moans into his skin.
“Atsumu! Please!” Kiyoomi gasps. The fingers aren’t enough. He needs Atsumu’s cock still pressed heavy against his thigh.
“Sorry, baby. I’m jus’ enjoyin’ my appetizer. Can’t believe I went this long without fillin’ ya up,” Atsumu works down the buttons of his shirt. Kiyoomi swallows a noise when he rolls out of his sleeves enough to expose his chest and shoulders.
“Almost killed the both of us,” Atsumu grins.
“I was fine, mostly,” Kiyoomi defends. Of course he wasn’t, but it’s standard for him to be contrarian when he’s flustered, and Atsumu is doing a lot of flustering.
“Other than the lingerie, of course. Told ya it’d look good on ya.”
Kiyoomi moves to protest but Atsumu is quicker, kissing him with a wet smack as he undoes his zipper and pulls himself free. His cock plops warm, heavy, and thick into the crevasse of Kiyoomi’s thigh.
Kiyoomi’s mouth waters. Atsumu’s cockhead is swollen and shiny and if it weren’t for how badly he needs to be fucked, he’d drop to his knees.
“When everybody is gone,” Atsumu huffs, “I’ll fuck all the anger out of ya.” He reaches a hand down to slick his own length shiny, before aligning with Kiyoomi’s hole. The gentle nudge of Atsumu’s cockhead short circuits Kiyoomi’s brain.
“Yes,” Kiyoomi agrees, “Whatever you want just put it in before I—!”
Atsumu swiftly grants his wish. Kiyoomi feels the deep stretch and deliberate drag as Atsumu pushes in and seats himself to the hilt. A deep squelch hits Kiyoomi’s ears as Atsumu sinks his hips to the back of his thighs. All of it hits Kiyoomi at once so hard it electrocutes him from his middle out to his limbs.
He comes, hard, with a moan too loud to be safe. His toes curl and his nails dig in hard on Atsumu’s chest as ecstasy courses through his veins. Kiyoomi has had sex with Atsumu enough times to have memorized the shape of him, but apparently two weeks apart was enough for his body to forget the way Atsumu feels.
Atsumu crushes their mouths together to muffle Kiyoomi’s cry, as if it might help keep someone on the other side of that door from knowing that Kiyoomi is getting absolutely railed. His fingers are digging the familiar bruises into Kiyoomi’s hips—the ones he should have made last night, and the night before. He fucks Kiyoomi deep through his orgasm, giving him little reprieve as he rams against his prostate.
“Fuck, babydoll. Right when I put it in,” Atsumu grunts against Kiyoomi’s cheek, “almost came with ya.”
Kiyoomi hisses, snapping his head forward to glare daggers at Atsumu. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls. Atsumu owes him another, at the very least.
A wicked grin spreads across Atsumu’s face. “I really do love ya, Omi.”
Kiyoomi is thankful Atsumu doesn’t wait for him to say it back. He trails a series of kisses in the hollow of Kiyoomi’s ear and works himself into a steady rhythm, one that ensures Kiyoomi feels every inch. He almost draws blood on Atsumu’s chest when he teases him with just the tip. He actually draws blood when Atsumu seats himself in one deep push that makes Kiyoomi knock over a basket full of potatoes.
“So good, so warm, so wet… yer pussy is so tight baby,” Atsumu chants like a mantra as hips meet thighs, happily ignoring the several things Kiyoomi has since knocked to the floor around them.
Kiyoomi only whimpers in response. He’s too blissed out on Atsumu hitting his button so good it’s turning his vision white. He moans and thrashes as Atsumu thrusts into him with a carnal need. He’s in his ear, whispering sweet and filthy things that build deep in the base of Kiyoomi’s spine.
“Missed bein’ inside you,” Atsumu swoons as he rolls his hips, slotting their mouths together.
Kiyoomi buries his fingers into Atsumu’s hair and tugs hard, arching himself further into his grasp. Atsumu swallows Kiyoomi’s noises as he kisses him sloppy. Kiyoomi’s eyes roll shut to the thick slide of Atsumu’s cock, warm hand pressing flat to his belly the way he likes.
This is what he’s missed. The way Atsumu fills him to the hilt with his greed. The way he fucks him possessively, like he has to mark himself in the spot only he can reach. The way he babbles, with all his babbling turning needy and desperate the closer he gets to his finish.
Atsumu kisses with a nip against Kiyoomi’s throat. “Omi, sexy, sweet, Omi. Mine, all mine,” he repeats against his skin, in between thrusts. “Wanna put ya in front of the mirror, let ya see how pretty ya look like this.”
Kiyoomi makes it a point to ask Atsumu to fuck him in front of the mirror later tonight. He loves watching when Atsumu takes him from behind, seeing his muscles flex and ripple, his head toss back and bow forward.
The thought of it makes Kiyoomi’s orgasm begin to pull taught in between his hips and hang in suspension, waiting for Atsumu to snap it like a rubber band.
“A-Atsumu—I-I’m—!”
“Wanna watch ya come for me again,” Atsumu confesses. “Want somethin’ nice to think about durin’ dinner.”
Kiyoomi glares at him through bleary eyes. Atsumu clearly doesn’t understand how hard it is not to squirm and wiggle and writhe under his touch. Kiyoomi is beginning to come apart at the seams as the kisses grow urgent and Atsumu’s hips quicken. Their breathing falls in sync, heavy and hot as Atsumu’s thrusts grow more frantic. Atsumu breaks their kiss with a furrowed brow and slacked jaw, a moan catching him off guard.
“Oh fuck, Omi.”
They’ve both given up on trying to suppress their pleasure from escaping the confines of this room.
Kiyoomi couldn’t care less. He’s excited that he can feel himself reaching his peak. He’s going to come again, and it’s going to break him apart until oxygen and after care stitch him back together. “Atsumu, there, right there!”
“That’s it, angel. Yer almost there… don’t close yer eyes.”
Kiyoomi can’t fight the way he blushes pink from his hairline to his chest. He looks down for just a fraction, to see his pretty, pallor skin bruising in all the familiar places. His lingerie is slightly disheveled from Atsumu’s tugging, and pulling, and fucking. And the way Atsumu’s hips are moving against his own, with his cock shiny and slippery and hips jerking as he gets closer.
Damn it. He’s supposed to stay mad at Atsumu. He came up with a formula to maximize the amount of sex he can get from staying mad. He planned to walk around in skimpy outfits and make Atsumu beg. But here he is now, losing all his remaining ire in one shot.
He forgives the past two weeks. He can’t stay mad at Atsumu, who irks his nerves, pushes past his walls, and etches himself into a place deep in Kiyoomi’s heart where he can’t get rid of him.
Nor does he want to. Kiyoomi loves all the butterflies, and goosebumps, and giddiness that comes with loving and being loved by Atsumu. He considers himself a practical man, grounded by reality, but Atsumu makes him free wheel through the stars. Atsumu makes him want to be bold. Kiyoomi likes doing things for Atsumu’s attention.
He likes when Atsumu overwhelms him with his kisses, his touch, his cock, and leaves him fit to burst open, like he is right now.
“Look at me,” Atsumu demands with a force that sends a thrill running through Kiyoomi. He doesn’t ever say it aloud, but he loves when Atsumu is demanding with him.
Kiyoomi snaps his eyes open to meet Atsumu’s. That warm, amber gaze is boring into Kiyoomi’s with a visceral greed. Atsumu hits Kiyoomi’s prostate just right, and Kiyoomi feels it break against his spine and rush through his hips. “Oh my god—oh god—oh!”
Kiyoomi’s jaw drops, a guttural cry caught in his chest as he seizes. The last thing he sees is Atsumu’s excited expression before his eyes snap shut and his vision splinters into fractals of light. Euphoria crashes into him and snaps his head back, entire body curling in on itself.
Atsumu doubles over and grips Kiyoomi tight around his waist as he comes, burying himself into Kiyoomi’s frame and pressing his moans into the crook of his neck. He spews a litany of curses as he twitches and jerks and shudders.
They both stay like that, clinging to each other like lifelines as they come down from their high. The room is quiet save for their breathing.
Pleasure ricochets off of Kiyoomi’s bones for what feels like an eternity before he comes to some sense of self. Atsumu slowly lifts his weight off of Kiyoomi and nuzzles a series of kisses in the hollow of his ear.
“So beautiful,” he whispers along Kiyoomi’s jawline.
Always, after sex, Atsumu is overly affectionate, carefully piecing Kiyoomi back together through butterfly kisses and soft touches. He slides his hands along Kiyoomi’s skin not with lust, but with love.
“Atsumu, the party,” Kiyoomi breathes. Now that they’ve blown off some steam, he’s acutely aware of how long they’ve been gone.
“Wish we could stay like this,” Atsumu sighs with a smile, “I’d tell everyone to go home, but I don’t wanna ruin all yer hard work.”
It’s painful to agree with how badly Kiyoomi wants Atsumu to take him upstairs and forget time.
He tilts his cheek into Atsumu’s palm, nuzzling into the thumb swiping away tears sitting on the edges of his eyes. “Don’t do that again.”
“What, listen to ya?”
“Avoid me,” Kiyoomi murmurs with a pout.
“Avoid ya? Never. I could barely resist ya, Omi,” Atsumu nibbles at Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “I’m gonna pull out now, ‘kay? Get somethin’ to clean ya up.” With a gooey slide, he slips out from Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi stifles a whimper at the loss of warmth, shuddering when he feels Atsumu’s come warm against his thigh.
Atsumu gently sets him dow and hurriedly gathers a wet towel to clean him off. “Shame, I shoulda plugged ya up,” he hums as he slowly works the towel against the shine of Kiyoomi’s thighs. “Leave a lil’ present for ya.”
Atsumu does his best to dab the stickiness out of the lingerie. Kiyoomi frowns when it feels cold and damp against his skin. “Best we can do right now until the party is over,” Atsumu wraps the towel and tosses it into the bin.
He moves to gather all the spilled items on the floor and counter before wiping himself down. As he turns around, Kiyoomi sees his back covered in scratches. It makes him fold in bashfully. He really was grabbing onto any and everything he could in the heat of it all.
Kiyoomi’s skin tingles. He looks down at himself, seeing all the marks Atsumu has left along his body. He runs his fingers over each one he can see, then the ones he can feel. Once again, Atsumu has consumed him completely and wholly.
Atsumu helps Kiyoomi back into his clothes, not missing every opportunity to kiss and nip at his thighs, his hips, his arms, his throat. Kiyoomi’s skin tingles and his stomach swims, welcoming Atsumu’s touch. He’s blissfully satisfied, and he likes that Atsumu always treats him gentle after, letting him bask in the gentle come down as his nerves settle.
Kiyoomi blushes scarlet as a smile tugs at his lips.
“Careful,” Atsumu warns, reaching to gently pinch Kiyoomi’s chin, “yer glowin’, can’t have anyone seeing this side of ya, doll.”
Atsumu pulls him into a dizzying kiss before stepping back to fix his shirt and smooth his hair.
Kiyoomi watches his nimble fingers close the buttons on his shirt.
Atsumu glances up from his shirt to look at Kiyoomi staring back at him. “Enjoyin’ the view?” He smiles slow, and lovingly, the way he always does after he’s well sated.
Kiyoomi chews on his lip. The window on their little paradise is closing, and soon they’ll have to head back out there and act like they didn’t just have intense sex in the prep kitchen.
He isn’t sure he can act convincingly. Atsumu makes him feel bold enough to do and say things he normally wouldn’t. To wear expressions that he’d prefer to keep hidden.
Kiyoomi steps forward and gently covers Atsumu’s hands with his own, stopping him mid-button. His throat is tight, not in anger or frustration, but something warmer.
“I love you, too,” he murmurs softly.
Atsumu’s hands still completely. His shoulders drop and his face crinkles with adoration, eyes going soft in a way that makes Kiyoomi’s chest ache. “Omi…”
“I’m happy,” Kiyoomi continues, the words coming easier now, “that I got to put this party together. That we’re celebrating this.” He gestures vaguely around them. Their home, their life together. “And I’m glad you like my party planning.”
“Yeah?” Atsumu’s voice is rough, trying to contain his eagerness.
“Yeah.”
Atsumu pulls him into another kiss—slower, deeper. Kiyoomi about wonders if he’s forgotten the time again until he pulls back with a grin. “Yer so cute, Omi… I can’t let ya go out there lookin’ like this.”
Kiyoomi reaches to finish the last button on Atsumu’s shirt, peeking at him through his lashes. “Consider that your punishment, then.”
“That’s not punishment, that’s torture,” Atsumu groans, catching his wrist.
“Like what you put me through.” Kiyoomi straightens and smooths his clothes. His face is still flushed, his lips swollen, and one hard turn of his head will expose the marks just underneath his collar, but he doesn’t really care.
Atsumu watches him with that possessive, satisfied look that always makes Kiyoomi’s stomach flip. “Us through, Omi Omi." He extends his hand and tilts his head. "Ready?”
Kiyoomi takes one last surveying glance of the kitchen and nods, taking Atsumu’s hand as he leads him back through the door.
They make their way to join the rest of their friends waiting, who for the most part seem unconcerned about their disappearance.
“Caterers must have had a lost to say,” Osamu drawls into his drink.
“A meeting with only half the party there, impressive,” Suna adds, twirling his fork.
“Ya’ll can fucking starve,” Atsumu says through a tight smile as he pushes in Kiyoomi’s chair. He sneaks one last kiss against Kiyoomi’s cheek before he takes his own seat.
Kiyoomi settles in, pointedly ignoring Komori’s did you really do what I think you did stare.
“Seems like you two lovebirds really have settled in nicely,” Aran says knowingly, sliding a casual arm around the back of Kita’s chair with a knowing look.
“Lovebirds…” Kiyoomi tastes the word. He feels a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth, but knowing Atsumu might seriously send everyone packing on empty stomachs keeps his expression carefully neutral.
Under the table, Atsumu’s hand finds his thigh and squeezes. It’s possessive, and grounding, and puts something in Kiyoomi’s chest. He glances at Atsumu, catching the satisfied smirk on his face, and feels something completely settle in his chest.
He’d spent two weeks angry, convinced that he could stay away. But sitting here, marked so obviously there’s no hiding it, with Atsumu’s grip warm on his leg—this is what he’d actually missed. Not just the sex. Not the touch.
This. The way Atsumu makes him feel like he’s glowing from the inside out.
So their friends know what they did. The staff know too.
They know that Atsumu and Kiyoomi can't keep their hands off each other. That this invitation into their home, the warmth filling every corner of it, exists because they're both completely infatuated with each other.
Kiyoomi holds Atsumu's gaze, something soft and knowing passing between them.
"Yes," he says quietly. "I'd say we have."