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Kiyoomi’s forgotten how much he loves a real live volleyball game. Though they once reminded him of his stalled career, now the scents of salonpas and food mingling with the cheer section's warmups and sight of the players stretching on the court take him right back to college, dreaming about Olympic gold.
Of course that day never came. But now, as he brushes his salt and pepper curls out of his eyes, at least he can enjoy the view.
The youngest players are at least twenty years his junior, and even his cousin recently retired, heading to Italy to coach. "They're all getting so fast, Omi!" Komori said before he left, just as bright as peppy at 44 as he was at 14. "Can you believe we were ever that young."
Absolutely not. Watching the younger players—the one with orange hair looks serene, while Kiyoomi's knees tinge in sympathy when another somersaults across the court—makes him feel ancient.
Compared to them, he's a relic of a bygone age.
One of them catches his eye; a shock of golden hair, no compression leggings so his shorts catch on the curve of his ass. He’s sitting on the floor with his back to the crowd, legs are spread wide while he carefully stretches out his wrists. Then he stretches his hamstrings, reaching for his ankle and twisting his body so he can look behind him and make his ass stand out that much more.
Kiyoomi knows the move well.
His sharp eyes scan the stands, half full with families and students and friends, ready for a day of exciting volleyball. It’s like he’s looking for something, or someone.
Kiyoomi’s sitting all alone in his section. He spreads his legs out, tosses an arm over the back of the chair beside him.
Then those honey-brown eyes make eye contact with Kiyoomi, and the blond winks and licks his lips, deliberately, before turning away.
Well then. Kiyoomi thinks. Very interesting.
The cocky blond—Miya, lucky number 13, Jackals starting setter—keeps scanning the stands after nailing a service ace, like he’s looking for something.
Or someone, Kiyoomi wonders, spreading his legs wider and leaning back to enjoy the view. Maybe it’s his lucky day too.
He’s incredible on the court. The whole team is, really, but Miya in particular does a shocking amount of damage for a soft-handed setter. He runs the court like he owns it, and maybe he does; his hitters jump to his command, he lands a quick-set Komori couldn’t have seen coming— Fast, he thinks—and his spikes have a shocking amount of power, too, when he convinces the redhead to set for him.
In another life maybe Kiyoomi would be on the court beside him. Right now? It almost feels like he’s being courted. And isn’t that something?
The game ends almost too early for him, all thanks to 13. ”Wasn’t Miya on fire?” “Yeah, those are his best stats in a while!” are the chorus he hears while fighting his way to the front of the merch stand.
All these buildings are built the same and Kiyoomi spent years picking up Komori after games, so it’s trivial to slip down to the locker rooms and look like he’s meant to be there. He’s still in his work clothes—suit and everything—from an early Saturday morning at the office, so all the players passing by him must assume he’s a JVA plant.
The MSBY captain is the only one to look sideways at him, but he sighs when he catches the Miya pennant in his hands. “You’re gonna go right to his head, you know that?”
He feels big even though he’s got maybe an inch on him. It’s the stare, Kiyoomi realizes. There’s humor in it, but also warning. “That’s the idea,” Kiyoomi says, steady as a ship. He must be judged worthy because the next thing he knows the captain pats his arm before heading off, the warmth lingering.
“Good luck!” he calls over his shoulder, then with a wink adds, “He’s the last one inside.”
Kiyoomi watches him saunter away. Something to put a pin in and pick up later.
He slips through the door, and bingo, there’s Miya. Shirtless, which is a delight. Freshly showered, which is a shame; Kiyoomi’s just going to make him dirty again.
“Congratulations on the game,” he curls out, delighting in the shriek Miya tries to stifle before turning around, holding his rolled up towel like a weapon. When he sees Kiyoomi he starts trying to play it cool, but Kiyoomi chuckles just the same. He holds up his hands anyway, so Miya can see the pennant and the watch on his wrist. “I come in peace,” he says, crossing the room to stand close enough to Miya that he can smell his body wash.
Apple, he sniffs. Cute.
“Sure doesn’t look like peace,” Miya says, stuffing the towel into his locker. "Looks like you're gonna raise hell."
Kiyoomi frowns. "Do I look like the devil to you, Miya?"
He gives Kiyoomi a fairly obvious once over, takes in the freshly shined loafers, the crisp line ironed into his wool pants, dark peacoat with buttons all neatly done up, and the pennant in his hand. "Y'look like a fan of mine," he grins, taking a deliberate step forward into Kiyoomi's space.
It closes the gap between them, but it means Miya has to look up at him with his challenger’s eyes. This close he can tell that Miya's hair is soft and well cared for, and he has to suppress the urge to run his fingers through it and tug.
More time for that later.
Miya doesn't have nearly as much restraint, reaching up to grab the pennant, ghosting his fingers against Kiyoomi's wrist in a move straight out of Kiyoomi’s flirtation playbook, early twenties edition. "This is mine," he says, surveying his prize.
"Really? I think you'll find that I paid for it."
"Yeah, but it has my name on it," he huffs, too distracted by the toy to notice how Kiyoomi is slowly inching forward into his space.
Kiyoomi, though, certainly notices the way Miya's body responds perfectly to his, yielding exactly the way Kiyoomi wants him to yield.
"Let's make a deal, Miya," Kiyoomi offers when his back hits the wall of lockers with a surprised huff. He props an arm against the lockers too, leaning in and ignoring Miya’s huff of “Kabedon, really,” because if it works, it works. He drops his voice to a gravel so he can whisper into his ear. “If you prove to me you deserve this pennant, then I’ll let you keep it.”
“I could buy one right now,” he protests. Kiyoomi shuts him up with his other hand, pressing a thumb against his lips and curving the rest of his fingers around Miya’s jaw and neck so he knows just what he’s up against.
“If I find you lacking, ” Kiyoomi rumbles, rolling his thumb back and forth against Miya’s soft lips, “then I get to keep what’s rightfully mine.” Miya gulps; Kiyoomi feels it travel down his neck, and he digs his fingers in a little bit. “Deal?” he asks, setting Miya’s lips free.
“Y’know,” Miya says, fingers nervously tapping at the metal. “For a guy who claims he ain’t the devil, y’sure seem fond of making deals.”
Kiyoomi laughs, a full bodied chuckle that rattles through Miya’s body, making the setter laugh weakly in response. “Oh, Miya,” he whispers, breath heavy against his ear so it tickles his neck, “I never said I wasn’t. ”
Miya gasps, and Kiyoomi takes advantage of his surprise to press his leg between Miya’s thick, muscular thighs. They’re warm—blazing hot, after a perfect game and the shower—and Miya’s cock, hard and insistent, twitches in his pants. “Eager.”
“Sh-shut up,” Miya says, or tries to, because Kiyoomi runs his thumb across his lips again to silence him.
“All I want to hear from you, Miya, is an answer. Yes. Or no. It’s very simple,” he’s deceptively calm, pressing his thigh more firmly against his cock and delighting in the shocked gasp it draws from him. “Unless it’s too hard for you, baby,” he coos.
“Yes, yes, yes, ya fuckin’ devil,” he reels, grinding his head back against the locker. “Now let go of me so I can be good for ya, or whatever.”
They get there, eventually. Kiyoomi finds a spare locker he can hang his peacoat in—“This is worth more than your life, Miya,” he’d grumbled when Miya laughed—and his suit jacket follows, tie stuffed in a pocket.
"Ya look like you're ready for business," Miya says, when Kiyoomi unbuttons his cuffs to roll up his sleeves, but he's struck dumb by the muscular line of Kiyoomi's forearms, hair thick and dark.
"Business of fucking you, maybe. Now, Miya," he carefully unlatches his watch and sets it down on the bench, before striding purposefully over to where the younger man sits, in sweatpants and nothing else, slipping into the vee of his legs. He grabs Miya's jaw and tilts it up, his pupils going wide and dark. "Why don't you show me how good you are?"
"What should I call ya, hmm?" Miya licks his lips.
Kiyoomi grins. "How about daddy?" he suggests.
After Miya clears the tears from his eyes and stops laughing, they settle on Kiyoomi.
"And I'm Atsumu," he winks, settling back on the bench, face still pink in a way that Kiyoomi will not admit is attractive, "y'know. Just in case my biggest fan forgot.”
“How could I forget, baby,” Kiyoomi says, gripping his— soft, just like he’d expected—hair to tilt his head again and regain his footing. “Now’s your chance to start showing me what a good boy you are.”
Atsumu gets to work with his belt. “Are ya sure you can handle me, Kiyoomi?” But then he gets to Kiyoomi’s boxers, sees the damp spot and massive bulge that shows what Atsumu’s done to him, and his jaw drops.
“I think I should be the one asking you that, Miya.”
It’s not just a lack of free time that keeps Kiyoomi away from volleyball. He works long hours and he doesn’t get much in the way of a break, but his penthouse on the nice side of Osaka and healthy retirement fund are more than enough to show for it. The business degree he’d studied ended up coming in handy, even though he still wishes he’d had Olympic gold to show for it.
But that’s just half the story; the real truth is that volleyball still gets him horny . Still, because navigating those locker rooms was a nightmare in high school and college. Good volleyball made him flush— great volleyball, like the kind Miya played, with his low lunges and perfect sets and all ten fingers gracing the ball like a prayer? That left him with a permanent half-chub in his pants, leaving him so stiff that he’d carefully folded his jacket over his lap to avoid being lewd.
(Not to mention his ass in those shorts. It bounced when he jumped. Kiyoomi wants to bite him. Spread him open like a peach and swallow him down.)
“Remember our deal?” With that nudge, Atsumu tugs Kiyoomi’s underwear and pants down and they fall to the floor. Kiyoomi kicks them away so he won’t trip on them later, leaving him in his button down and loafers and Miya in his sweats and— ugh, Kiyoomi doesn’t miss those— crocs.
Atsumu licks his lips. “Greedy,” Kiyoomi laughs.
“Hungry,” he corrects, and dives in for a meal.
Before the game, Kiyoomi looked at the marquee with all the players and their pictures on it, saw Miya’s long tongue and spread lips, and thought there’s a mouth made for sucking cock. Now? He’s got proof.
“C’mon, baby, you’re doing great,” but Atsumu doesn’t need much prodding when he’s sucking Kiyoomi halfway down on the first gulp, soft lips stretched wide around his girth. Kiyoomi’s still got a hand in his hair but it’s mostly gliding along with Miya’s head as he bobs, up and down, up and down. He grips Kiyoomi’s ass like it’s a lifeline, and when he hums around him, Kiyoomi’s hips jerk forward automatically, embedding him deep in Atsumu’s throat, wet heat pulling him deeper. “You’re doing so well, baby, taking me so deep.”
Atsumu’s eyes are closed in reverie as Kiyoomi holds him in place, nearly taking him to the base. Drool drips down the side of his lips and it’s adorable. “Sweet thing,” he says, spreading some of the spit around his mouth while Atsumu’s legs tremble, so weak from sucking him already, “you were made to take my cock, weren’t you? Stretch your whore’s mouth wide open, use your tongue for something better than sticking it out.”
He lets out a whine that rattles through Kiyoomi’s cock, and sets him free to slobber and suck and bob his head up and down his length, tongue running along his vein.
Kiyoomi noticed it—how often, on the court, Atsumu stuck out his tongue absentmindedly while setting or cheering or serving—and knew it would be better served elsewhere.
As Kiyoomi gifts him more praise, Atsumu tries to wind a hand down to his cock to give himself some relief. Kiyoomi lets him dig the heel of his palm in once before he snatches it back and stills Atsumu’s hand. “The taste of cock has you that hard, baby? What a little slut you are, hmm?” he says, gripping it tight enough to keep him still but not enough to hurt him. “No touching yourself, not yet; I don’t think you’ve earned it. Remember, baby, you have to be good.” He punctuates his sentence by thrusting into Atusmu’s mouth, choking him a little bit in surprise.
When Atsumu comes up for air, he fists his hair painfully and doesn’t let him go back down.
His cock might suffer, and he already misses the warm enclosure of Atsumu’s throat, but he wants more. “Excellent work, Atsumu,” he coos, delighting in how pink and swollen his lips are already, the sweat starting to bead on his forehead.
“Omi,” he whines, a reedy sound that goes right back to his cock, “wasn’t I bein’ good?” His pupils are so wide, and he looks up at Kiyoomi with a pout that should look out of place on a grown man suits him, so Kiyoomi forgives the nickname.
“You were perfect, baby, but I think you can do better than that, can’t you?” He kneels down—carefully, knowing his legs—crouching in the vee of Atsumu’s legs. A wet spot’s just starting to form at his crotch. As he adjusts his grip, loosens it to slide down and cup the back of his head and press their foreheads together, so Atsumu can get a look at his own eyes and how much he’s already affected him, his other hand fumbles with the pants he’d kicked away. “I was watching you, you know,” he murmurs against Miya’s lips.
“I know,” Atsumu says, “I saw ya out there, during warm-ups.”
“Oh?” Kiyoomi lets his voice curl with delight like it’s a surprise. “Did you like what you saw?”
Atsumu gulps. “I liked it a lot,” he admits. “Thought you looked-” he cuts himself off, biting his lower lip.
Kiyoomi finds what he’s looking for and sets it aside for later. “None of that, baby,” he says, massaging Atsumu’s scalp and rubbing his other hand up Atsumu’s abs, distracting him and groping his fill. “Tell me what you liked. That’s how you prove you’re being good.”
“I liked…” he hesitates. Kiyoomi stills his hand to give him space to think. “I liked your hair,” he admits, after a long moment of silence. “It’s nice and thick, and it makes you look real handsome.” Kiyoomi’s a little shell-shocked. His grays have made him nervous since they started coming in a decade ago, and people say they make him look distinguished and dignified, and noble, all words you’d use to describe a politician. But handsome? People didn’t normally go for that.
“Oh,” Kiyoomi says, because it wasn’t what he was expecting. He thought it might have been the glint of his expensive watch, or his Burberry sunglasses, or even the crisp lines of his button-down. Kiyoomi screamed expensive to people who were looking for it, and the brand of pretty young things he attracted tended to be interested in a certain kind of quid pro quo.
“And then–” Atsumu cuts himself off again. Kiyoomi would tire of it if he didn’t bite his lip cutely, making them more flushed and swollen and pink.
But Atsumu looks too embarrassed for a man who just had his cock shoved down his throat. “What else?” Kiyoomi growls, hovering just above his lips. He wants to taste them, lick his own musk out of Atsumu’s mouth, but that’s a reward for later. “C’mon, baby, if you want your pennant you have to be good and-”
“Your arms,” he says, miserably, like he’s absolutely mortified by the admission. “You look strong.” Kiyoomi is; he’s not going to split hairs over it, he’s got a dedicated workout routine to keep his flexible wrists healthy and his core strength intact. “Like you could pick me up,” he finally says shyly, looking up through lashes at Kiyoomi.
And oh, oh, that’s deserving of something. “That could be arranged,” Kiyoomi says, already considering the layout of the locker room, because it might take some work but he can make it happen, before leaning in to capture his lips. “Good boy,” he says, licking in.
Atsumu’s so willing. He wasn’t expecting it, from the cocky flirtation in front of what felt like half of the volleyball world, but Atsumu goes exactly where Kiyoomi wants him to go, presses him down against the bench so Kiyoomi can straddle him and bite his lips, peel off his joggers and run his hands along his strong thighs.
“Look at you,” he says, taking in the full picture of Atsumu, splayed out across the bench in nothing but clean briefs straining against his cock, skin a light golden tan despite how long the winter’s lasted. “Gorgeous.”
Atsumu shivers. “Ya don’t have to flatter me,” he says, turning his head away.
Kiyoomi growls. “It’s not flattery if it’s the truth, Miya,” he says.
Maybe he’s gotten a little too deep in his feelings. Maybe they need to remember the deal they made—the one Atsumu thought he signed with the devil. After all, this is just for today, right? A one-off. Kiyoomi will probably never have the free time to see the Jackals play again, and Atsumu will have his pick of young men or women, whatever suits his fancy, and—
“Omi?” Atsumu’s voice cuts right through the whirlwind of his thoughts, and he’s leaning up on his elbow, looking at Kiyoomi with concern. “Y’alright?”
“Never better,” Kiyoomi says, already reaching down to prod Atsumu into lifting his legs so he can tug down his underwear. Shake it off, he thinks. There’s time for worries tomorrow. Now, he should indulge.
He straddles the bench, settling between Atsumu’s legs so one rests flat on the ground and the other is stretched across his own thigh. Like this, Atsumu’s ass and cock are spread out and visible to anyone who might walk in, and Kiyoomi’s not sure what he feels run down his spine when he realizes he didn’t lock the door.
Kiyoomi reaches behind him to grab the lube. “Where’d ya get that?” Atsumu asks.
“I brought it with.”
“Huh? Didja walk in here thinking you were getting laid?”
Kiyoomi may have assumed he could find someone to fuck here, but in all honesty he didn’t think it would be a player. “This’ll just make it easier on you,” Kiyoomi says instead.
“Fine,” Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest. “Boy scout.” He sticks his tongue out at Kiyoomi, like he’s a child.
“Do you even want this?” Kiyoomi spits out. He’s warming the lube between his fingers and has his eyes on Atsumu’s hole. He must wax it, Kiyoomi realizes, and it makes him a little feral, the idea that Atsumu was ready and waiting for a hook-up. “I mean, of course you do. Look at your slutty little hole.” He slaps Atsumu’s inner thigh, close to his ass, and then runs his lubed up fingers across his taint for the surprised whine he knows Atsumu will give. “But I want you to tell me what you did to deserve this,” he insists, pressing one slick finger against Atsumu’s hole, just enough for him to feel the pressure but not enough for him to sink in.
Just a little taste of what Atsumu could get.
“What I did?” Atsumu asks, confused, but already bracing himself against the bench in anticipation of what’s to come.
“What you did to attract my attention,” Kiyoomi says, and then when Atsumu still looks confused, adds “on the court. You had a career best game. Tell me about it. How many service aces did you land off of the Adlers?”
“Eight,” Atsumu says immediately. “It woulda been nine if stupid Kageyama hadn’t– ah!” he yelps, as Kiyoomi abruptly inserts a finger.
“Good boy.” He rolls his finger experimentally and watches Atsumu’s reaction as he feels his tight walls expand and contract around him. “Breathe,” he commands, and waits for his chest to rise and fall before continuing. “You were doing such a good job out there, baby. I bet your team depends on you a lot, huh?”
“Of course they do. I’m their setter,” Atsumu says, proud despite Kiyoomi’s finger flexing and exploring his ass.
“Watching you run around the court, dropping down for those beautiful sets in those beautiful little shorts,” Kiyoomi says, twisting and pumping his finger in a sick rhythm while Atsumu relaxes into the praise, “it made me want to eat you alive.”
“Omi,” Atsumu whines, eyes closing.
None of that. Kiyoomi pulls out his finger and Atsumu could cry. “Eyes on me,” Kiyoomi demands. “Watch me or I give you nothing at all.”
Painstakingly, impossibly, working against gravity and fate and the will of all the gods, Atsumu peels his eyes open. It seems impossible that he should be a wreck with only one of Kiyoomi’s fingers, but maybe they’re—”You’re really big, Omi,” Atsumu says, like he was reading Kiyoomi’s mind, “and your wrist does the weird little-” he flops his hand around to demonstrate.
“They’re very flexible,” he replies, pleased that Atsumu’s eyes are at least open. He moves to enter him again, but his own eyes are on Atsumu’s greedy little face, eager grin, like he can’t wait for what’s to come. “Tell me what you want.”
“What?”
“Tell me what you want me to do to you, Atsumu. Be a good little boy and do as I say.” It rolls through his body, and Atsumu closes his eyes for a second while he gulps.
Kiyoomi’s about to say something when Atsumu opens them again. “I want your fingers,” he says.
“Fingers?” Kiyoomi mimics, a little cruelly. “How many of them do you want? Just one?” He ghosts a single finger across his taint.
“Two of ‘em, Omi, gimme another.”
“Demanding.” Kiyoomi’s being a little unfair and he knows it, but it’s fun. “Tell me what you did to earn them. How did you best serve your team, besides giving them a bunch of service aces?”
“I- um, in the second set, when Hinata’s jump was a little short, I fed him the ball real fast so he could still make it,” Atsumu says, blush on his cheeks like he’s proud and nervous. It’s sweet. Kiyoomi grants him a finger.
“What else,” he says, deadly seriously, keeping it still, embedded in his ass.
“And then—when we were three points behind—I, um,” Atsumu must get distracted by way Kiyoomi starts pumping his finger in and out, slowly.
“C’mon, you’re better than this. Tell me what you did.”
Atsumu takes a deep breath and goes on, gripping the bench tightly. “I saved that ball before it went out of bounds and they took a worse lead.” Kiyoomi remembers it well. How deep Atsumu lunged, how tight his shorts dug into his thighs, muscles flexing in his arm and straining in his calves.
Kiyoomi rubs his knuckle against his hole, growing puffy and pink. “What else.”
Atsumu looks like he’s straining to think about it—Kiyoomi can’t really fault him because he’s making it hard on purpose, teasing him with the promise of more. “I… I can’t remember Omi,” he admits, nearly shaking. “You’re too distracting.”
“You little slut,” Kiyoomi says, shoving in the second finger. Atsumu gasps in surprise, muscles flexing with the strain, as his cock twitches. “Is that what you were thinking out there on the court, too? That I’m distracting? Were you thinking that if you pranced around in your tight little shorts and played perfect volleyball, that you’d be good enough for me to fuck? Capture my attention?”
“Yes Omi.”
“Well congratulations, Atsumu,” somehow the use of his real name makes Atsumu’s eyes roll back in his head, and not the fingers toying with his walls and curving inside of him, “you’ve got my attention. I only hope you can keep it.” He’s feverish with it, watching his fingers disappear into his ass, cheeks fat against the bench, feeling his beautiful wet heat. He wants to lean down and suck Atsumu dry. He wants to lick his abs. He wants-
“Omi! Please! I can take ya, I can take ya!” Atsumu says, sight next to his ear. A hand suddenly grabs at his arm, stopping Kiyoomi in his tracks. He slowly pulls his fingers out, slick and squelching, and Atsumu hisses.
He’s panting wildly, his cock dripping with precum. He looks a mess all red and glistening with sweat, soft hair matted and wet.
Kiyoomi had been so distracted by the way Atsumu sucked him up, he hadn’t noticed him leaning forward to stop him.
“I know exactly how big ya are,” Atsumu says softly, staring Kiyoomi dead in the eye. “I know my body. I’m ready for ya.”
Kiyoomi gulps. “Okay.” No games. No tricks.
Atsumu had one fantasy, and Kiyoomi’s gonna fulfill it, come hell or high water.
“You really don’t have to do this, Omi,” Atsumu said, while he considered their options.
“No, Miya, I’m going to make it happen. Just let me think.”
They end up like this: on one of the wider benches, Atsumu straddling Kiyoomi’s thighs, ready to sit down on his cock.
“You sure you’re ready for me?” Kiyoomi asks, while Atsumu hovers over him.
“‘Course I am, daddy,” Atsumu mocks, and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.
“Alright,” he says, and then gently—because he’s got his hands gripped tight around his narrow waist, fingers so long he can almost wrap all the way around; because he already knows how good Atsumu’s going to feel around his cock and he wants to savor the journey; because Atsumu’s a smug little menace who knows exactly how tight his ass is—lowers him down his cock.
And oh, it’s just like Kiyoomi imagined. His head latches into his hole and Atsumu gasps. “Are you alright?” Kiyoomi asks, and Atsumu nods.
“Y-yeah,” he says. “You’re big.”
“Just relax.”
“Trying.”
He doesn’t want to force Atsumu down—doesn’t want it to hurt, not when Atsumu gave him perfect volleyball. So he does what he knows will make Atsumu feel better. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he murmurs, waiting for Atsumu’s answering gasp. “You’re already taking me so well. You look gorgeous, you know, the way your ass sucks up my cock.” Atusmu breaths and seems to take him deeper.
“Keep going, Omi,” Atsumu whines, looking away from Kiyoomi like he can’t handle it. And maybe he can’t; Kiyoomi certainly couldn’t, which is why he’s on this end of things.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, baby? All that work you did out there, playing so hard and so well, just for my cock?” He squeezes one of Atsumu’s cheeks, smacks it a little for good measure. “Your ass was made for cock; it was made for my cock. Can’t you feel it?”
“I can,” Atsumu insists.
It’s agony going so slowly, when all Kiyoomi wants to do is fuck up into him, ruin his ass and leave him weeping for days, but the payoff will come.
When Atsumu settles all the way down on Kiyoomi’s cock, taking him all the way to the hilt, Kiyoomi kisses his forehead. There are tear tracks in his eyes from the stress of taking him, and Kiyoomi’s cock is a livewire in Atsumu’s ass, reeling against every subtle flex or motion. “Good boy,” he coos, wiping his bangs away from his forehead and kissing it. “You did so well for me, Atsumu. Now let me give you what you want.”
“Omi?” Atsumu says, eyes wide and big, and then Kiyoomi’s last bit of finely wrought control gives out.
He starts bouncing Atsumu on his cock, slowly at first to give Atsumu time to cling to his back and so Kiyoomi can savor the view of his cock sliding in and out of that ass. His cock—stuffed between them—is hard as glass, dripping precum as the tip of it rubs against Kiyoomi’s shirt; it’s going to be a bitch to clean, but that’s why he pays his dry cleaners well.
“C’mon, baby, work those thighs for me,” he says; Atsumu’s knees are braced against the bench and the muscles in his thighs are doing their best. “You did so well on the court, be good for me too, that’s it.” Atsumu’s ass is sucking him up, the fat globes of his ass slapping against Kiyoomi’s thighs as he sets a brutal pace, fucking the words out of Atsumu’s mouth.
It’s all Atsumu can do to hang on, wrap his arms around Kiyoomi and dig bruises into his back, and for once he’s grateful that setters are diligent about their nails. “Your greedy ass is eating me up, baby,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu dips his head into the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck to cry as he bounces, up and down, all on Kiyoomi’s command.
Kiyoomi reaches down to squeeze tightly at a cheek, spread him a little wider, before letting it bounce back into place. Atsumu moans. “You look so delicious, I want to eat you up. I bet your ass tastes fantastic. Has anyone ever done that for you, baby?”
“Nuh-uh,” Atsumu grunts out. “Never.”
“Good,” Kiyoomi says. “I want to be the first. Open you up with my tongue and nothing else, like you’re a feast. I bet you’ll love it, fucking your slutty hole. Bet you can come just from that.”
“Omi-” he gets cut off when Kiyoomi fucks up into him, lifting him higher so he can feel his cock slam deep into his ass. Kiyoomi’s own legs—and his old injury—strain with the effort, but it’s worth it to feel Atsumu wrapped around his cock, fuck him breathless and wordless and boneless.
“What do you call me, baby? What do you call me to be good?” He raises Atsumu high enough that just the head of his cock remains inside of him, stretched lewdly around his hole, but he knows how empty he must feel.
“Omi,”
“Wrong.”
“Kiyoo-”
“Wrong!”
“Daddy,” Atsumu finally lets out, and Kiyoomi drops him down. The word goes right to his cock, as does the ongoing litany of “daddy, daddy, daddy,” that Atsumu repeats into his neck, like it’s the only thing tethering him down.
He feels his balls tighten and electricity in his cock; he holds Atsumu right down to the base of his cock, rutting small circles that pull whines and gasps from him. One of his hands finds its way into Atsumu’s hair and he lets his fingers play with the sweaty strands, while the other comes down to pump at Atsumu’s cock, angry and purple and mostly untouched.
“C’mon baby,” Kiyoomi murmurs, while Atsumu cries into his neck. “You’re doing so good,” softly petting at his hair as he grinds into his ass and uses his tricky wrists to fist Atsumu’s cock, pump him hard and fast down the sweet ride to oblivion. “Just a little more for me, okay? Come for me, baby, you can do it.” It’s a commanding growl into his ear, and Kiyoomi licks at his neck and smells apple just like before, over the scent of sweat and musk and athlete Atsumu exudes.
When Atsumu comes—sticky ropes onto Kiyoomi’s nice shirt—he clenches tight around Kiyoomi; he couldn’t hope to move even if he wanted to.
As Atsumu roils through the aftershocks Kiyoomi comes too, shooting deep inside Atsumu’s ass, and from there things go a little hazy.
He thinks he kisses Atsumu, tastes his lips while they ride out their orgasms together and melt into each other, boneless.
He thinks he helps Atsumu into the shower, helps him clean and uses some of his body wash for later, and Atsumu talks him through the five part wash-routine he’s come to perfect.
And he thinks he wraps Atsumu up in his gym clothes again, before Atsumu curls up on one of the benches and says “I need a nap, Omi, just a few more minutes.”
But he knows that he leaves with regret, taking a last lingering glance at Atsumu, golden and soft on the bench, before unlocking the door and slipping out.
“Shit,” Atsumu thinks he hears as he goes in and out of sleep. Someone presses a kiss to his curls. “I have to go.”
There are crisp footsteps making their way around him, and he feels something around his wrist before the door clicks open and he feels, suddenly, that he’s alone.
He opens his eyes.
The locker room is perfectly clean, and he’s wearing all of his clothes. If it weren’t for the slight tingle in his ass, his more-sore-than-usual muscles, or his sore throat, he wouldn’t know anything had happened. It would’ve just felt like a dream.
“A vivid one…” he mutters, sighing and running his hand through his hair. There’s a glint of metal, and when he lowers his wrist he sees a shiny, expensive— seriously, Inunaki will not shut up about these brands—watch wrapped around it.
When he looks to the side, there’s a small pennant with Miya 13 written on it, and a business card folded crisply in half on top.
He grins when he reads what’s written inside.
There’s a name— Sakusa Kiyoomi, CFO , and the logo of some tech company he vaguely recognizes with a headquarters here—and a phone number. On the other side there’s a note, written in an incredibly fine hand.
Miya,
You’ve won the pennant, but the watch is on loan.
Return it next week, if you’re being good.
-the devil Omi
Atsumu cackles the entire way home; maybe he met a crossroads demon, but he’s sure he met a man. A man who made him promises.
The watch doesn’t really fit his wrist. It’s silver and he was made for gold. He’d better give it back.