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2—3
2-to-fucking-3.
They lost that match two sets to the Raijins’ three. Amateur. Ridiculous. Sloppy.
And, worst of all, it was Sakusa’s fault.
Nobody else seems to be able to recognize that but him. They all gave him pats on the back; Painfully condescending reassurances.
‘ Well, we can’t win ‘em all, eh? ’
‘ AGHHH! My bad guys! I TOTALLY shoulda’ nailed that last cross shot! ’
‘ It wasn’t your fault man! None of us saw it coming. ’
But it was Kiyoomi’s fault. It was . They may not have caught the fact that that feint was coming, but he should’ve. He always does. He knows the signs—He was just too goddamn caught up in trying to squeeze through that weak spot in the wall when he saw it open.
It was the mistake of a high school boy, not the mistake of a 24-year-old professional.
Even the sight of the blonde’s lips, already slick and swollen peony pink from use, wrapped around his cock isn’t enough to pull his distant eyes back to the present. Even their brief flick down to the beautiful purpling mark blooming just below the top border of his jersey collar along his skin isn’t enough to stop his obsessive replaying.
Atsumu didn’t miss the sudden nosedive in Kiyoomi’s mood when they lost the game. ‘Course, he himself was obviously pissed off too—But few people recognize Kiyoomi’s emotions like he does. It’s one of the many things about himself that he takes pride in.
So, he set his own feelings of frustration aside to drag his—well, teammate , for lack of a better descriptor of their descriptionless relationship—into the empty seldom-used locker room on the far side of the stadium. Within moments, he was down on his knees, trying to suck his mood back up to normal. There was no command to; no request. But if there’s any usually foolproof method he’s got to connect with the stoic brunette, it’s sucking his cock ‘till it’s drained. Really, it’s his only method.
He puts on his best sexy look: Lashes fluttering and lazy gaze lidded; Face flushed with the heat and tingles in his belly; Noises escaping through vibrations from his lips made only by a mouth stuffed full of cock.
But he’s just…. elsewhere . This bastard has a whole hot ass guy wrapped around him like a vacuum hose just for the hell of it, and he’s not even paying him any goddamn attention .
The tingles in Atsumu’s stomach turn into a tight squeeze of anxiousness as he even feels Kiyoomi go a little soft in his mouth .
He pulls off with a wet pop, the strings of his puppetry falling away from his lips like torn silk threads.
“Are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me Omi?” Atsumu seethes with a half-sneer, brows furrowed into what can only be described as a bratty pout, “Y’could at least try an’ act like ya give a shit that I’m servicin’ ya right now.”
Sakusa sighs like this is more of an inconvenient chore than an intimate act. He’s gone from a little softer than before to half-mast in a matter of seconds. “I’m just not in the mood for this, Miya. I told you that already.”
Realistically, that should be a perfectly reasonable and understandable answer—but it only serves to make Atsumu feel more insecure.
“Well if ya didn’t want it then why’d’ja say yes ?” He throws his hands up for emphasis, recoiling slightly, “I didn’t push ya fer this. I’d never push ya! But— y’always like it when I give ya a little top after a bad game.”
Kiyoomi gives a brief pause after that, one that stretches long inside the silence of the abandoned room. Atsumu finds himself continuing before the other can even get his mouth open again.
“What, are ya bored’a me already ?” He says it with a smirk, but Kiyoomi can see the way his hands twitch a little on his thighs, like they’re struggling not to tremble. “Maybe I oughta start learnin’ some new tricks then.”
Kiyoomi can feel himself getting more and more pissed off. When the hell did he say that? He can hear between the lines of what the blonde isn’t saying, and he’s taking silent words out of his mouth.
“I’m not doing this bullshit with you today. Just forget it.” He glares, eyes narrowed, and Atsumu visibly bristles against it like a dog raising its hackles.
He knows they need to talk. They both know they need to talk. They always need to talk, but they never do. Atsumu’s thoughts swirl ‘round in his mouth and on his tongue, but he’s too afraid to open it lest they spill out all over everywhere. What do you need from me? How do I matter to you if what I’m offering isn’t helping? How do I help? This is all I can do.
“It wasn’t you who did it. It wasn’t yer goddamn fault, Kiyoomi, I set’cha up fer failure,” Atsumu says; Even his anger sounds like it’s coming out more like a desperate scramble.
Kiyoomi’s gaze narrows again. The blonde feels Kiyoomi’s thighs tense under his palms like a defense mechanism. “Don’t try and bullshit me, Atsumu. I know good and damn well I fucked up.”
Atsumu. He’s getting somewhere. Why does the rare sound of his name on the man’s lips make his pulse flutter a little?
“It was my set, Omi,” He says with a firm palm to his own chest, “I set to ya when I shouldn’ta ‘cause I knew ya would try and push through on that slim chance when I shoulda set ta’ Barnes and let’cha stay our outer defense as a precaution. It was me. Stop beatin’ yerself up over this dumb shit!”
Kiyoomi’s eye twitches. It feels patronizing. He knows it’s not. He knows it’s honest and it’s a real attempt at getting him to stop wailing on himself mentally, but it just feels so...condescending; Like he’s trying to take the fall because he thinks he can’t handle shouldering the blame. Irrational.
But fuck , who does he think he is?
His large, lithe, bony fingers grip at either side of Atsumu’s head, tugging him forward between his legs and hunching down further to meet his gaze more head-on, “ You think you’ve got all the answers all the time? You think you can fix everything with a little smooth talk and whoring yourself to whoever’ll let you?”
Atsumu nearly loses his balance on his knees as Kiyoomi drags him up. Jesus he can feel himself twitching down there.
“What I think , is that yer so busy tryin’ ta’ freakin’ martyr yerself that y’ain’t lettin’ anyone else get through the goddamn waxy buildup in yer ears. ” He spits back; He feels like an angry fox pup hissing back at a panther, really. But good god if it isn’t turning him on.
And he must not be the only one, because his eyes flicker down as he watches the spiker’s cock jump and twitch back to life in his peripheral vision.
That hunger in Atsumu’s gaze reignites the fire in Kiyoomi’s all over again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. It’s always like this.
“You wanna fix this so bad?” Kiyoomi’s hands pulling his head down back into his lap serves as Atsumu’s answer. It was a resounding yes anyway, “ Then fix it. Slut. Do the only other thing your sorry cocky ass is good at.”
Words are lost in translation as Atsumu’s tongue lolls out to lick at his hardness until he can mouth it back between his lips without even using his hands. Fucking hell he feels like a hungry animal scrounging for table scraps after a family dinner.
And yet, he’s sucking harder and faster, and more enthusiastically than he has in a long, long time.
Kiyoomi can’t even hold back his heavy breaths and strangled moans as he watches Atsumu try and suck his length down his throat like the thing’s a ventilator, and he’s dying of oxygen deprivation. He’s trying to suffocate himself on the very thing giving him life.
This isn’t performative like before, this is pure, unadulterated desperation .
Kiyoomi’s thighs and legs flex and jerk, almost cramping as he feels his cock hit the back of Atsumu’s throat, only to slip further down after he watches the blonde gag and choke a little.
At first, even through the blinding pleasure, he panics. He tries to pull his head off a little, thinking maybe he’d accidentally gone too far, but Atsumu chases it back into his throat like he’s terrified of letting it go.
Kiyoomi thinks he’s seeing the pearly gates. His vision goes white for the briefest of seconds, and then he’s locked on how fucking teary and wrecked the man looks when the blur in his vision wears back off.
And then; once he’s had the chance to re-gather his bearings; Atsumu is sucking again.
He can’t help himself. Kiyoomi’s control snaps like the load-bearing cord of a suspension bridge at weight capacity.
His hands tighten into the sides of Atsumu’s hair, and then he’s thrusting . Not hard—nothing bruising—but he’s thrusting . Atsumu’s eyes roll back. His hands grip at the legs of Sakusa’s volleyball shorts for purchase, the fabric slipping even further down in his attempt to find stability in the moment. He’s being used. He’s being fucking used right now. It’s like all his Omi-Omi’s frustration is coming right out into his throat. He’s helping.
He’s not certain how long this goes on for before Kiyoomi is spilling down his throat with jerking, seizing movements and a wicked arch in his back. New beads of sweat that aren’t from the heat of the game they were just playing are rolling down his temples and body, and he looks so fucking blissed out that it’s the very last piece Atsumu needs.
Before he’s painting the inside of his own boxers with the sticky evidence of just how painfully arousing that was.
Atsumu is coughing and panting as he slowly pulls his mouth off of Kiyoomi’s slowly softening cock, an amalgamation of no less than three different fluids turning his face and the brunette’s crotch into a messy, sloppy aftermath of the most intense pleasure either of them have ever felt with a partner before.
Atsumu came untouched. He fucking came untouched. He spilled in his boxers like some teenage virgin.
His body is trembling. His stomach feels light and fuzzy. His crotch is tingling with the afterglow of orgasm. His head feels like a mess .
And yet, he’s grinning with a blissed out look of nothing less than sheer happiness as he peers up at a finally-relaxed Kiyoomi, who’s looking down at him just as fondly, “So….y— ya like my new trick? ”
It’s the only thing he knows how to do, after all. He might as well master it.