Archive of Our Own

Foxes call during mating season. Kiyoomi finds this out after two weeks of knowing Atsumu⁠—⁠who is, at this time, still only Miya, the obnoxious setter from Yako Middle School who is a fox shifter and infuriating and Kiyoomi’s bane⁠—⁠when he comes home from an impressive showing at Zenchuu to steal books out of his sister’s room after dark.

The Miya twins are the first pair of fox shifters that Kiyoomi has ever met, and they aren’t even real fox shifters yet⁠—⁠Atsumu with his moon mark hinging the left side of his jaw, Osamu with his hiding high on his right bicep. The both of them are still barely teenagers, marked by their prospective youkai like a placeholder until they come properly of age. Kiyoomi isn’t a real weasel shifter yet either, his own silver kanji purely decorative where it nearly touches his bottom lip. The animal instincts aren’t theirs to command yet; other forms are something for when they’re fifteen.

Yet the Miya twins drive Kiyoomi to gritted teeth. They make him antsy. They make him sweat. Atsumu barely smiles at him from the opposite side of a court when their teams are not even playing against other and Kiyoomi wants to punch him; Motoya has to pinch him on the elbow to get him to listen to what their coach is saying, and for the rest of the game Kiyoomi’s senses remain on edge.

So he steals animal books like a child and reads them surreptitiously under his blankets with a flashlight, looking for anything that might explain such a reaction. It’s there that he finds it, buried underneath all the uninteresting clinical facts: in mating season, real foxes wail in the search of a mate.

It’s wrong to think of the moon-marked as real animals. Kiyoomi knows firsthand how much the youkai laugh about such a claim. When he first met Weasel and received his own kanji placeholder, he understood. Weasel was something beyond human conception⁠—⁠ancient and youthful all at once⁠—⁠and nothing like the tiny, moderately cute animals that inhabited his shrine and danced through Kiyoomi’s dreams.

Still. It’s hard not to remember this knowledge when faced with Miya Atsumu, who is loud and ridiculous like a siren and burrows his way into Kiyoomi’s perfect sport (and his life) like a thorn.

And by the time Kiyoomi is two months into dating Atsumu⁠—⁠who is now at this time finally Atsumu, the obnoxiously talented setter on Kiyoomi’s team who is still a fox shifter and now infuriatingly attractive and Kiyoomi’s boyfriend⁠—⁠he expects that Atsumu would be loud in bed.

Yet he’s not.

In bed⁠—⁠or in the dorm hallway, or the empty locker room, or once, horrifyingly, inside a stadium closet⁠—⁠Atsumu is quiet. Not in a way that is insulting. Not in a way that suggests unhappiness with how Kiyoomi is between the sheets. Just . . . meaningfully silent, and carefully so.

Which is fine, really.

Kiyoomi just wasn’t expecting that he’d take it as so much of a challenge.

It’s a bit of a problem, given who they are. Atsumu is brazen, gorgeous, and reckless. Kiyoomi is shameless, apathetic, and in love with him. They should not keep doing this in public, and yet here they are once again. Atsumu’s quietness would be useful, probably. Too bad Kiyoomi doesn’t care. He’s too busy chasing after Atsumu’s reactions, his sounds.

It’s early January, just after the resumption of the second leg of the season, and MSBY beat EJP in four sets, final score 3:1. On the other side of the net was Motoya and Suna Rintarou, so for once Kiyoomi had responded to all of Hinata’s enthusiastic high fives. Hinata has shown to actually be quite careful, never walking outside with wet hair and diligently wearing a mask in crowded spaces.

Because it’s January, all of Kiyoomi’s hair has gone white for the winter. Because of that, Atsumu keeps accosting him whenever they are alone together, seeming frantic to get down on his knees. This is where they are now⁠—⁠alone in the shower, with most of Kiyoomi’s cock stuffed down Atsumu’s throat, and both of Atsumu’s eyes fixed on the thatch of white hair marking the center of Kiyoomi’s pelvis. The water makes it difficult to get a good grip on Atsumu’s own hair yet Kiyoomi manages, tangling his fingers in the silky smooth strands whenever Atsumu breathes. Atsumu is red-cheeked and teary, and he keeps closing his eyes and then opening them again; when he opens them, he moans.

That’s probably why Kiyoomi is content to simply watch him and has not even been rocking his hips gently this whole time⁠—⁠those sounds. They take Kiyoomi’s breath away; more than the blowjob, which is achingly good.

“You are very strange,” Kiyoomi still tells Atsumu, sliding his fingers down to hold his nape. He remembers the first winter his hair bleached white and how self-conscious he was about it. No one else in his family or at Itachiyama Institute was a stoat, and suddenly Kiyoomi was something worth staring at off of a volleyball court as well as on one. He remembers every winter after that, negotiating new people and dealing with the invasive questions from the assholes about if it was all of his hair (it is), and through it all Atsumu, who showed up to a December training camp with his own freshly colored hair.

Atsumu who said he liked it, the first winter they were teammates.

Atsumu who keeps dropping onto his knees so that he can stick his nose in the hair covering Kiyoomi’s groin⁠—⁠

Atsumu does something with his tongue on the underside of Kiyoomi’s dick that has him throwing his head back and arching, sliding ungainly against the tile wall.

“Tsumu,” Kiyoomi says. He tugs harder on Atsumu’s hair until Atsumu comes fully off his cock; Attsumu’s eyes are hot and annoyed. Then Kiyoomi is preoccupied by the state of Atsumu’s mouth⁠—⁠raw and red and swollen. Atsumu’s moon mark covers the left hinge of his jaw. Kiyoomi’s is on the right side of his chin. Both of them were probably told growing up that it meant intelligence, but Kiyoomi likes to think it means they match.

He drags the tip of his cock down Atsumu’s cheek to paint a streak of white over the silver kanji there because the phase of tonight’s moon is new, and all of Kiyoomi’s baser desires have come out to play. Fox may have marked Atsumu first, but Kiyoomi is the one who has him now. (When he was younger, he wondered if the youkai made them wild when the moon was gone to be clever; as he’d gotten older, he’d realized they were all throwing a tantrum because the moon goddess herself was looking away.)

Atsumu gazes up at him, his eyes hooded with the pupils blown wide.

“Up, I want to kiss you.”

Atsumu comes off the shower floor with only a minor complaint, then gets distracted tangling his fingers in Kiyoomi’s hair. He seems almost disappointed to lose sight of it when Kiyoomi kisses him; makes another soft noise right into Kiyoomi’s mouth. He still tastes sweet, but sharp like the mint toothpaste he used to brush his teeth before climbing inside the shower with Kiyoomi. (That was one of those habits he’d started doing jokingly back when they were merely friends. Now he somehow manages to make basic dental hygiene sexy.) He keeps petting Kiyoomi’s hair, rubbing at Kiyoomi’s ears. When Kiyoomi opens his eyes and takes a break to breathe against him, he finds Atsumu tracing shapes in the fine hairs above his brows. Those are white now too. Kiyoomi supposes that’s why Atsumu stares.

“You’re so strange⁠—⁠”

“You’re so beautiful,” Atsumu counters instantly, not giving Kiyoomi a chance to say any more. His cheeks flush immediately afterwards. “I mean you’re always beautiful⁠—⁠and not just during the winter⁠—⁠but during the winter, your hair Omi⁠—⁠I mean⁠—⁠” He stops talking, gnawing teasingly on his lower lip.

Kiyoomi tugs him closer to shut him up further, sliding a hand down his back until he reaches the hot flesh of Atsumu’s ass and can dip the tips of his fingers in between. Atsumu falls quiet, waiting, and rocks back when Kiyoomi doesn’t continue to move.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu finally says.

Kiyoomi shifts to press a finger quietly inside him, finding Atsumu slick and hot and ready. It seems Kiyoomi is not the only one whose base desires have been affected by tonight’s new moon.

Atsumu moans, kissing Kiyoomi again, before grinding his hips back. “More,” he sighs. “Gimme one more.”

Kiyoomi does so with his own little sigh.

Not all fox shifters are like Miya Atsumu, who never once in his adult life has needed to purchase lube for himself. Kiyoomi’s bed partners in college had been one moon child, one monkey, and then an embarrassment of foxes one after another⁠—⁠but not a single one of them was like this either. In fact, Atsumu himself is only this way because Fox felt bad. Atsumu and Osamu won the lottery and were dropped at her shrine on their fifteenth birthday together, and she mistakenly gave them different forms⁠—⁠to hear Atsumu tell it, all humans look the same to the youkai, and she hadn’t realized they were identical to the rest of the world as well. What Fox has given Osamu to make up for this transgression Kiyoomi hasn’t actively pursued, but what she gave Atsumu was⁠—⁠

“You’re thinking about my magical self-lubricating asshole again,” Atsumu says smugly, interrupting Kiyoomi’s thoughts.

Annoyed, Kiyoomi crooks the three fingers he has pressed inside of him, delighting when Atsumu’s legs shake, and he stops grinning and instead stutters out a small gasp.

“I have my hand inside of it⁠—⁠”

“Not your whole hand,” Atsumu points out pedantically. He sounds less breathless now, which is even more annoying. “And I know⁠—⁠but you think about it all the time even when you don’t. On the court. On the bus. At the dorm. I can always tell because your eyes somehow get even darker when you do.” He inhales deeply, exhales smugly, and no matter of rubbing his fingers up towards his prostate earns Kiyoomi a reaction to make up for his⁠—⁠annoyingly accurate⁠—⁠words.

Atsumu is brazen, gorgeous, reckless; Kiyoomi is shameless, apathetic, and in love with him. What is Kiyoomi supposed to do, when they’re on the court together and Atsumu has destroyed the enemy with a hybrid serve, quick set to Hinata to slam the ball past the opposing team’s middle blockers, or turned the tide with an infuriating dump? Not think about having him all to himself afterwards? Not think about hooking his legs around Kiyoomi’s shoulders and fucking him until he cries?

“Would you like a cookie⁠—⁠”

“I’d like your cock, please, Omi, thank you,” Atsumu says. He reaches up to yank on one of Kiyoomi’s white curls, smiling, as Kiyoomi tugs his hand free.

“Be loud,” Kiyoomi tells him⁠—⁠an old adage at this point.

“Make me,” Atsumu (as always) replies.

Kiyoomi shouldn’t. The only reason they’re allowed to be alone so late in the showers is because they don’t play tomorrow, and the entire team is staying overnight in the city at a hotel. The rest of the team are predominately shifters, if Kiyoomi counts the birds. (He doesn’t usually count the birds, because Kiyoomi has never understood the birds, Hinata and Bokuto most of all. Even Wakatoshi-kun, with his perfect work ethic and his insurmountable prowess, is still sometimes alien to Kiyoomi; odd.) But Meian-san, Barnes-san, and Tomas are all vaguely canine⁠—⁠Barnes-san and Tomas are American, so their forms are a bear and a coyote, but Meian-san went to one of the dog schools that was not Inubushi Higashi (he’d laughed about the assumption from Atsumu, when he’d heard). So when Atsumu gets like this, they all know to clear the room. Likely they’re all out celebrating the win elsewhere; Kiyoomi could indulge.

But they’re still in public. Someone else could still come into the locker room and overhear. Kiyoomi is not so new moon-struck that he’d be that careless. Or maybe Kiyoomi is so new moon-struck that the very thought of someone else hearing Atsumu’s pleasure makes him want to growl.

“Omi,” Atsumu complains, shifting. “Omi, please.”

He’s so polite. He smells so desperate. For four sets he demanded nothing less than perfection, commanding Kiyoomi, Hinata, and Bokuto like some sort of volleyball puppet master. Now, pressed up against Kiyoomi in the communal showers with only the hot water between them, Atsumu whines. Begs. Says please.

Kiyoomi kisses him and entertains the thought of ignoring him, of letting Atsumu work himself into a frenzy and breaking his silence that way instead. But then Kiyoomi bites down a little too hard on Atsumu’s bottom lip at the memory of the last time Kiyoomi tried that (and they broke a hotel bed and were shamed the entire ride to the airport plus most of the hour spent on the plane) and Atsumu hisses involuntarily. Instead Kiyoomi wheels him around and pins him face first against the wall.

The water beats a steady patter against Kiyoomi’s spine, further soaking through his white hair. Atsumu curves back into him, grinding his ass teasingly against Kiyoomi’s thigh. “Omi,” he says. “Omi⁠—⁠cock.” There’s some of that usual demand. The petulance. The arrogance of desire.

“Be loud,” Kiyoomi tells him for the second time.

Atsumu stills with his head craned around so he can look at him, then goes languid against the wall. His mouth hangs open as he pants. Despite that, he smirks. “Make me,” he repeats.

Kiyoomi works a hand down once again to feel at him, sucking in great lungfuls of air. Atsumu is hot and sopping, hole sinfully drenched. Kiyoomi should really send Fox a proper thank you; make a point to leave an offering at her shrine.

He pulls his fingers away and hooks them around Atsumu’s right hip and then slides right in with no warning, just an even, already-hard thrust. Vaguely, the memory of complaints from former partners⁠—⁠of the single time Kiyoomi had tried to fuck another weasel shifter and learned firsthand why it was so difficult⁠—⁠comes to the front of Kiyoomi’s mind. Weasel shifters fuck mean. It’s a little-known quirk of their biology, leftover gifts of instinct from Weasel himself. Kiyoomi’s late night animal books had included that fact too: real weasels are induced ovulators. Weasel shifters fuck mean by design.

“Fucking hell, Kiyoomi, warn a guy,” groans out Atsumu, hunching his shoulders and scrambling against the wall with both hands. Their position means that whenever Atsumu can’t manage to hold himself upright, gravity just sinks him down harder onto Kiyoomi’s cock, bumping the backs of his thighs against Kiyoomi’s pelvis. Atsumu grows more and more clumsy each time this happens, his legs clearly wobbly from pleasure. Eventually Kiyoomi grabs him around the waist and holds him up against the wall, grumbling. His own legs are screaming at him, but he pays them no mind.

“This is your warning,” says Kiyoomi. “You will be loud.”

Atsumu drops his forehead against the tile and goes completely boneless, forcing Kiyoomi to take all of his weight as he keeps him firmly pressed against the wall. “Oh, you’re on.”

Shower sex is not usually Kiyoomi’s favorite. On the one hand, the cleanup is minimal, which is about a hundred points in its favor; on the other hand, there’s no easy way to get horizontal, and whenever Kiyoomi and Atsumu fuck, things tend to get horizontal quickly. It’s just better⁠—⁠for both of them⁠—⁠if Kiyoomi can put Atsumu on his front (or his back, he’s not picky) and give it to him as hard as his instincts demand; better if Atsumu can fold Kiyoomi’s knees into his chest and slowly grind into him, over and over until Kiyoomi is breathless and so strung out he could cry.

Better, but not impossible.

With the new moon coming in the sky above him, Kiyoomi has the strength to hold Atsumu up and to fuck into him in strong, even strokes. He doesn’t even feel winded, shaking not from exertion but from the good of it⁠—⁠the clutch of Atsumu’s tight heat, the boil of their still-hot shower water, the taste of Atsumu’s body wash getting in Kiyoomi’s mouth as he sucks kisses and bites into the back of his neck.

That’s instinct too. Kiyoomi once watched a YouTube video of a pair of weasels mating and spent the weeks after celibate in protest. Then he coached himself through why it was for perfectly human reasons that he always ended up with his teeth buried in whatever partner’s nape. Then he called up Motoya⁠—⁠who first laughed at him, and then said that Suna didn’t mind all the biting, that he thought it was hot. And well. Kiyoomi didn’t really get complaints. Kiyoomi didn’t really fuck anyone for more than a good night. Kiyoomi didn’t have time for anything much beyond volleyball, and occasionally⁠—⁠if he really needed it⁠—⁠his right hand.

Until Atsumu.

Atsumu marks Kiyoomi up almost as much as Kiyoomi marks him, if not more.

Of course he can’t right now. Not with Kiyoomi caging his body up against the wall, slamming their hips together so that Atsumu’s dick rubs teasingly against the tile. It probably hurts, or if it doesn’t, it probably isn’t enough stimulation at all. Kiyoomi likes it that way. Atsumu is quiet up until a point, and then he’s vicious, denial before anger, anger before bargaining, bargaining straight into acceptance, begging that never fails to sound sweet to Kiyoomi’s ears.

“Kiyoomi,” gasps out Atsumu. “Kiyoomi⁠—⁠please⁠—⁠”

He’s still far too quiet. Kiyoomi snaps his hips harder but that doesn’t do anything. When he gentles himself, Atsumu almost sighs.

The muscles in Kiyoomi’s calves have finally managed an unignorable protest, and Kiyoomi stops supporting Atsumu’s weight with a deep breath. Atsumu sways once he’s on his feet again, hunching forward to try to find purchase against the wall. “We should have done this in a bed,” he says once he has.

Kiyoomi gives him a quick moment and then drapes entirely over him, mouthing at the back of his neck again in agreement. “Sure.”

“Your bed,” Atsumu continues. “You know, because I won.”

Kiyoomi’s rhythm falters. He delivers two particularly powerful thrusts in punishment immediately after, but the damage still has been done. “The whole team won,” Kiyoomi tries regardless.

Atsumu’s grin is audible. “I scored more points than you.”

“You did not⁠—⁠”

“I did so.” Atsumu looks back over his shoulder with a honey sweet smile that reminds Kiyoomi of iced tea. “All of my points are my points. And all of my spiker’s points are my points. So all of the points in the game are my points. Ergo I win⁠—⁠”

“That’s absurd,” Kiyoomi says. If only he were annoyed enough to stop fucking Atsumu. But even this is fun⁠—⁠this endless back and forth. It’s what drew them together to begin with, antagonism bleeding into familiarity into fondness into love.

“It’s the truth,” Atsumu says, because he is a little shit.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kiyoomi replies, because he is enamored.

“You love me anyway,” Atsumu retorts, because he’s observant. “Ergo⁠—⁠fuck⁠—⁠”

Atsumu’s legs try to collapse when Kiyoomi reaches down suddenly and takes hold of his cock, but Kiyoomi manages to keep them both upright, tugging Atsumu back to rest his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. They’re both way too tall for this, but Kiyoomi likes the closeness that this position affords; likes how he can turn his head and leave kisses up and down the left side of Atsumu’s throat, kiss the spot where the moon herself touched him and turned him whole. “You were saying?”

“You’re an asshole⁠—⁠shit⁠—⁠please don’t leave marks.”

Atsumu is breathless and breathing hard but not so fucked stupid not to mention it; Kiyoomi almost bites down hard enough to bruise in response to that. But he knows better. He knows better than to leave marks. He and Atsumu are famous⁠—⁠maybe only in volleyball circles, but that’s enough. Atsumu and Kageyama are even in a competition to see who gets to a million followers first on Instagram, and Atsumu could win⁠—⁠people like photos of cute mammals more than they like photos of birds. (It helps that Atsumu is photogenic and understands photo composition, and that most of Kageyama’s crow photos end up being of him perched awkwardly on a branch staring at nothing or maybe just at the sky. Kageyama’s traction mostly comes from Oikawa Tooru, who seems to enjoy reposting Kageyama’s content in his story just so that he can make fun of him. Miyagi is strange, Kiyoomi has decided.)

Doing it this way with Atsumu’s head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder is putting too much stress on Kiyoomi’s lower back. He growls, letting go of Atsumu’s dick and shoving Atsumu back against the wall. He presses their bodies back together, chest to spine down to where they’re still joined. It’s not good enough. Kiyoomi can’t give it to him good enough.

“Omi,” Atsumu wheezes out. “Omi, touch me⁠—⁠”

Kiyoomi reaches around once more and finds the head of Atsumu’s dick, rubbing slippery fingers across the extra sensitive tip because it makes Atsumu whine his full name.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu groans.

Kiyoomi snarls. It’s a wild, animal sound. The skin around Kiyoomi’s moon mark feels hot with power, pulsing but not quite glowing. It keeps touching Atsumu’s skin, making Kiyoomi dizzy with pleasure. But he’s in control. He’s not ruled by the moon. He’s only shifted mid-coitus once in his entire life, and afterwards he’d actually paid a moon child classmate to lift the memory out of the poor person’s mind⁠—⁠with their very embarrassed permission, of course. Yuuji hadn’t objected. He hadn’t been interested in remembering going from being fucked within an inch of his life to sharing his college bed with a stoat, either. Kiyoomi himself had kept the memory because the thought of someone messing with his head had always freaked him out to sleeplessness. So he can remember it now, with his chin burning hot. He buries his face preemptively into Atsumu’s shoulder.

“You’re thinking something stupid,” Atsumu says. “Or important. I can’t tell which.”

“Stupid,” Kiyoomi agrees. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried,” Atsumu slurs, hunching against the wall and twisting his ass back, back, back. “I’m worried about you⁠—⁠I always worry about you⁠—⁠”

“I always worry about you too,” Kiyoomi replies, chin once again burning. “God. Tsumu. Fuck.” He hides his face harder, willing the urge of transformation to pass.

Atsumu drops his head so that his spine arches, and twists, reaching for Kiyoomi’s hair.

“What’re you⁠—⁠”

“Is it this?” Atsumu says, directing with his fingers and somehow immediately finding Kiyoomi’s moon mark on the first try. He barely touches it with the one index finger he hooks into Kiyoomi’s mouth, but Kiyoomi shudders despite himself, hips jerking frantically.

Fuck. He’d read somewhere that people with intelligence marks were more sensitive⁠—⁠something to do with the number of nerves in the face and the lips. Or maybe that was just porn. Kiyoomi doesn’t make a habit of watching a lot of porn, and certainly nothing shifter-based, but he’d . . . dabbled, once or twice. College had been for many things⁠—⁠collegiate volleyball, sexual awakenings, a parade of (as Motoya annoyingly calls them) bootleg Atsumus, the works. People weren’t supposed to make moon marks sexual, but that sort of taboo always breeds obscenity. And someone else’s hands on them really do feel too good.

Atsumu in particular is unfairly good with his hands. He traces the lines of the field radical on Kiyoomi’s chin with the edge of his thumbnail with practiced ease; he’s not even looking at Kiyoomi, is still pinned thoroughly against the wall.

He is impaled on Kiyoomi’s cock.

Kiyoomi should be in charge.

Kiyoomi is a shaking-apart leaf, moonlight in a human body, but whatever connection that was forged between him and it by Weasel is nothing against the force of Miya Atsumu, his first (and only) love.

God but Kiyoomi has become sentimental. Atsumu’s not even fucking him and he’s turned Kiyoomi’s higher thought functions to mush.

At least the finger in Kiyoomi’s mouth is easily bit down upon, though the turn of Atsumu’s body means he can’t lick much beyond the nail. Atsumu still shivers in his hold.

“Omi?” Atsumu pulls his hand away and Kiyoomi’s gums ache with the loss. He wraps his arm around Atsumu’s waist again, not going for his dick just time, simply aiming to hold. His rhythm has faltered. That’s probably what Atsumu is responding to.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi tells him.

He can hear how Atsumu has furrowed his brow. “Don’t be sorry,” Atsumu says. “Just . . . what’s wrong?”

Kiyoomi drags his hand up Atsumu’s chest and neck to find his moon mark, rubbing the pads of his fingers against the half of it that is also the kanji for melon. “Nothing,” he says. “I was just thinking about how very much I love you.”

Atsumu makes a noise like Kiyoomi has punched him in the gut, not simply stroked over the mark on his cheek and said the truth. “God, Kiyoomi,” he groans. “You can’t just say that.”

Kiyoomi shifts his hand so that he’s holding him about the throat. “Can’t I?”

Atsumu groans and bows his head. Kiyoomi tilts forwards almost involuntarily and mouths at the skin of his nape again, helpless against the call. Though it is difficult to fuck him the way he wants against the wall. But Kiyoomi will die before he willingly gets on the floor. He’ll just have to settle for this. Atsumu certainly knows how to make it worth his while.

Atsumu is still being diligently silent; if Kiyoomi hadn’t been dating him for almost two months now, he’d have thought maybe he was doing something wrong. And maybe he had, that first time. Maybe he’d ended up lying awake in bed on his phone, Atsumu snoring adorably across his chest probably drooling (which Kiyoomi didn’t think was terribly gross; the first sign that Miya Atsumu was perhaps more than a passing affliction). Maybe he’d looked up . . . things. About foxes. Like Atsumu was a fox, not a fox shifter. Like Kiyoomi was a weasel, not a weasel shifter. Mating season. Induced ovulation. Things.

“Tsumu,” Kiyoomi says. The address comes out muffled by the wet skin of Atsumu’s neck, but he understands regardless, humming curiously in response.

“Yeah?”

“Why aren’t you . . . loud?” Kiyoomi asks, then immediately regrets it; he hadn’t meant to ask any of this aloud.

Atsumu swivels his hips and then purposefully halts, a hand reaching back to tap a staccato beat against Kiyoomi’s left hip in response. “Turn around. I want to see you for this. Fuck!”

Kiyoomi is not particularly gentle when they separate, but he has the wherewithal not to thrust immediately back into Atsumu once he’s turned around to face him, since he knows that if he does, he’ll be lost. Front to back means Kiyoomi can be rough and pleasure seeking. Face to face means Kiyoomi gets to do both those things and see Atsumu come. Neither one means Kiyoomi lasts⁠—⁠but for the latter, he might as well be a bullet train going downhill.

“Now.” Atsumu practically lounges against the moist tile wall, the only thing giving away any of his desperation being the curve of his dick. “Are you asking if that shit about foxes wailing in mating season is true, Omi-Omi?”

Kiyoomi feels the tips of his ears heat involuntarily despite himself, memories of all the times he was the asshole countering idiots on weasel shifter biology flooding his mind. He tries to change the subject, adjusting the spread of his feet, but Atsumu drops a hand between them to keep him from sinking his cock back into him.

“Uh uh, no cheating,” he says. Then he cheats by cupping his hand around the head of Kiyoomi’s dick, distracting Kiyoomi from even answering.

“Ngh, what?” Kiyoomi ends up saying, once he manages to peel his eyes back open and stop from collapsing against Atsumu and the wall.

Atsumu doesn’t stop touching Kiyoomi’s cock. He lengthens the strokes of his palm, jerking Kiyoomi off in earnest now and adding little, gracenote flourishes here and there. “To answer your question: I don’t know; I haven’t gone around fucking foxes, and Samu⁠—⁠”

“Please don’t talk about your brother while you’re doing that,” Kiyoomi says, words coming out painfully as Atsumu gets his hand lost in Kiyoomi’s pubic hair⁠—⁠most likely on purpose, since he’s so weird.

“Me, I guess I’m loud everywhere else,” continues Atsumu, definitely running his fingers through the wiry hairs atop Kiyoomi’s pelvis on purpose, petting them back the wrong way just to hear Kiyoomi groan. It’s simultaneously too much stimulation and not nearly enough, and it hurts, but not really⁠—⁠kind of like what it feels like when Atsumu grooms Kiyoomi’s fur backwards when they’re both in their other forms. “It’d probably be some kind of cosmic tragedy if I were a screamer in bed as well.”

Kiyoomi tells himself it’s because Atsumu’s gone back to touching his cock that he moans.

Atsumu has no such illusions. “Oh. Well maybe I’ll become one just because you seem to like it so much⁠—⁠”

“Please, I don’t⁠—⁠”

“Kiyoomi, don’t lie.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t understand how they’ve ended up like this. Minutes ago his cock was down Atsumu’s throat. Fewer minutes ago, his cock was in Atsumu’s ass. Now Atsumu has his hand wrapped around Kiyoomi and is directing him like he would a volleyball. Kiyoomi’s pleasure is a hybrid serve and Atsumu is the best server in the V.League; Kiyoomi never stood a chance.

“I just don’t think it’s fair,” he finally mumbles out. “How you’re . . .” He trails off, without words here, then continues, “And I’m . . .” with a similar lack of end.

Atsumu misses no beats. “You mean how you fuck like you’re trying to climb inside me?” he says matter of factly, back to tormenting the tip of Kiyoomi’s cock. “Moto-kun has sent me the videos. I know exactly where that comes from⁠—⁠”

“God, please don’t talk about my cousin while you’re doing that,” Kiyoomi blurts out with horror, though he’s still too attracted to Atsumu to even go soft.

Atsumu just smirks, seeming pleased about it, so Kiyoomi reaches out with his hand and grabs hold of both of their dicks, easily knocking aside Atsumu’s hand. Though perhaps this was a mistake as well, because now he’s distracted by how good it feels to fuck his cock through his fist and against Atsumu’s, the slide made easier by the water and both their desire.

“I’ll scream if it’ll make you happy, Omi-Omi,” purrs out Atsumu, though his eyes flutter and don’t stay open and his toes curl. “Promise. I swear on the moon.”

“You’ll scream because you won’t be able not to,” Kiyoomi tells him, his voice coming out something closer to a growl. This time there is no protest when Kiyoomi feeds his cock into him; only Atsumu tipping his head back and bearing his throat with an exhale. He’s on nature’s birth control⁠—⁠fox mating season falls at the end of the summer, not the midpoint of winter⁠—⁠but Kiyoomi still thinks about it when he watches his cock disappear into Atsumu bare. Pros of shower sex: they can do this without it feeling entirely disgusting. Cons of shower sex: when Kiyoomi bottoms out and Atsumu warps his legs around him, Kiyoomi is the one supporting him, his lower back feeling the strain.

“I’ll give you a massage later,” says Atsumu, tapping against Kiyoomi’s ass with his right foot. “Promise. Now please⁠—⁠Omi⁠—⁠Kiyoomi⁠—⁠please.”

Kiyoomi gets a better grip on Atsumu’s hips, plants his feet, pulls nearly all the way out, and then thrusts deeply back in; all that earns him is a gasp. Two more thrusts and Atsumu hisses breathily; three more thrusts and he’s chewing on his lip to stifle how good Kiyoomi’s accuracy is; four more thrusts after that and finally he lets out the first moan.

“Omi⁠—⁠”

“I told you that you’d be loud.”

Atsumu’s brown eyes are half lidded but still vibrant. “This isn’t⁠—⁠”

“For you, it’s practically screaming.”

Atsumu’s entire expression goes soft. But then he manages his trademark smirk. “Now, Omi, I know you can do better than that,” he demands.

Kiyoomi agrees. Ten minutes later Atsumu comes howling untouched on the relentless pound of Kiyoomi’s cock, thighs tightened viciously around Kiyoomi’s waist; a rousing success all around, Kiyoomi thinks. Kiyoomi himself comes much less vocally with his teeth sunk into the meat of Atsumu’s right shoulder several moments after that, then he pulls his dick free and replaces it with all four fingers on his right hand.

Atsumu whines, helpless in the aftershocks and already oversensitive. “Oh, Omi⁠—⁠Omi⁠—⁠no⁠—⁠” It’s not a real “no,” yet still Kiyoomi hesitates; until Atsumu cracks and eye and manages to nod at him, yelping out more sobbing moans of not-real-protests when Kiyoomi gets his other hand down to stroke the tip of him just to see. He’s already hard. Maybe he’d never had a chance to go properly fully soft. “Bastard. Fuck you. Oh, Omi, please, please, please, please,” begs Atsumu.

Kiyoomi will admit⁠—⁠he’d never really understood the appeal of the second, forced orgasm. Not as anything he’d want done to himself, anyway. Of course, he has experienced it⁠—⁠he and Atsumu are as competitive in the bedroom as they are other things⁠—⁠but it would not be his poison of choice. (No, Kiyoomi prefers edging, wants Atsumu to lead him to the precipice again and again until he no longer remembers his name, and all that’s left in him are tears.)

However. Atsumu makes the entire thing look so rapturous that Kiyoomi’s tongue dries up in his mouth. Atsumu shuts his eyes and whimpers through the entirety of it, fucking his hips into the overstimulation like the masochist he is. “Kiyoomi,” he says. “Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi. Oh⁠—⁠”

He somehow goes even more boneless afterwards, legs shaking and entire body twitching in Kiyoomi’s hold. Kiyoomi keeps his fingers hooked into him for as long as Atsumu will stand it, which is always for much longer than Kiyoomi would have. Then he pulls them free with a sigh. This far away from orgasm, all the bodily fluids are starting to make Kiyoomi twitch.

Before he can get too far in his head, Atsumu blinks open his eyes. “Mm, here,” he says. He reaches out and grabs for Kiyoomi’s right hand, pulling it up to lick the mix of his own slick and Kiyoomi’s release off of all four fingers. Kiyoomi should find the entire process disgusting. Instead, his traitorous cock tries valiantly to go again. After that⁠—⁠even more supposed-to-be-disgustingly⁠—⁠Kiyoomi spends several minutes kissing Atsumu, chasing after the clutch of his mouth much like he had that of his ass moments earlier.

“Hey, the water’s gone cold,” Atsumu eventually says. They’re still pressed up together against the shower wall, but they’re now both solidly standing on their feet.

Kiyoomi shivers when Atsumu says the words, almost immediately registering the truth of the statement. The water is starting to feel sharp and cold against his back. “Mm,” is all he says.

Atsumu smiles, reaching out to lace his hands behind Kiyoomi’s neck happily. “We should probably leave.”

They should, but Kiyoomi is suddenly exhausted, the exertion of the match coupled with the exertion of their coupling weighing him down like lead. “Mm,” he repeats.

Atsumu smiles wider. “Aren’t you worried about us getting sick?”

“Mm.” At least this time Kiyoomi sounds disgruntled.

Atsumu leans in and pecks him once on the nose, then again on the mouth. He pulls back before Kiyoomi can get too distracted, though. “Alright, you big baby,” Atsumu says cheerfully. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Mm,” Kiyoomi agrees.

Atsumu turns off the water, but not before wrestling the last few dredges of heat out of the showerhead to rinse them both one last time. He leads Kiyoomi out of the stall with one hand, handing him the first of the fluffy, wonderfully clean towels. He even helps blow dry Kiyoomi’s hair, though that might be a mostly selfish endeavor, as he wastes precious time simply running his fingers through the curls.

Kiyoomi gazes back at him sleepily, yawning unceremoniously in a manner that all of his ancestors would definitely find irredeemably rude.

Atsumu only smiles wider. After they’re both dressed, he moves to pack both of their bags without further complaint, handing Kiyoomi a clean cloth mask before he does. “Here. You just sit down.” Baby, I’ll take care of you, he’d said.

Kiyoomi ducks his head to hide his smile. He holds the mask, weighing his options.

“Hey⁠—⁠Omi?” says Atsumu. When Kiyoomi looks he can see he’s almost finished with his own bag and is now carefully folding and packing Kiyoomi’s things. “If you want, I can carry you back to the hotel. But my legs are still kind of jelly, right now, so I’d love you forever if first you got all small.”

Kiyoomi is too tired to do more than glower at him, muttering, “You’ll love me for forever regardless.” He’s long given up on fighting about adjectives⁠—⁠no matter what he does, Motoya will not help him delete all photographic evidence of that time Atsumu kept carting him around in his mouth on Hinata’s Instagram live to prove a point. And that’s not even mentioning that time he and Atsumu experimented to see if Kiyoomi would fit entirely in Atsumu’s mouth. (He did, it was horrible for both of them, and they have as good as a blood pact to never speak of it again.)

“True.” Atsumu doesn’t stop arranging their things neatly between both their bags, but he does look up to smile. “Offer’s still good, though.”

“I love you,” Kiyoomi tells him in thank you, yawning hugely. He doesn’t have to think about the transformation because he’s so tired, though he is careful to make sure his clothes go with him as well. The mark on his chin heats briefly as the moon’s magic flares to life under his skin and there is only minor disorientation from the change in body size, but even that is subdued by tiredness. Kiyoomi yawns, perfectly aware that doing so in this form is likely to earn him a loud announcement of, “Cute!”

Atsumu doesn’t disappoint, laughing when Kiyoomi climbs up his body with expert ease, ending up wrapped around his throat like a furry, white necklace. Kiyoomi stays there as Atsumu continues packing, then as Atsumu finally exits the stadium, and then for almost their entire journey back to the hotel. Only once Atsumu has cleared the train station and is walking sedately along the moderately busy street does Kiyoomi shift back, scurrying down his right arm and linking their fingers once he’s able.

Together, they walk on.