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Present day, the wedding
Pale gold catches Kiyoomi’s eyes between one moment and the next, enchanting and familiar.
But his gaze isn’t on the joining of two hands before him, exchanging a pair of rings — glinting under the chandelier lights that has him thanking the gods for the slight powder he’d dusted across his cheeks earlier that morning.
The rest of the room have their sights and phones trained on Suna Rintarou and Komori Motoya’s exchange of vows (uncharacteristically restrained for once; maybe Motoya’s mother really did manage to put some sense into them), but Kiyoomi is distracted by something objectively far less important than his cousin getting married. He continues to stare anyway, watching Miya Atsumu smile before he gets distracted by something Osamu says beside him — and as Atsumu addresses his brother, he turns his back to Kiyoomi for a split second.
It’s enough to snap him out of his trance. He turns back to see Motoya giggling at Suna, both of them clearly struggling to hold back tears as they dab their eyes with already damp handkerchiefs. Kiyoomi pats his breast pocket, and internally sighs at the knowledge that he’ll have to sacrifice his own for Motoya’s endless crying later on.
Kiyoomi has never thought Suna capable of wearing such an open expression on his features.
But things change, he supposes.
From the corner of his eye, he can see Miya watching the two of them again. Kiyoomi resists the urge to twist his body around to face the other man and take in the sight of something he’s left in the past — where regrets go to die in the wake of new adventures.
Somehow, it doesn’t surprise him that Miya still wears his hair like he’s twenty-two and living together with Kiyoomi; blonde, loud, and attention-grabbing as ever.
And Kiyoomi can’t seem to stop looking, even after all these years.
“It is my honor to present to you the newly wedded couple: Suna Rintarou and Suna Motoya!”
The hall rings with thunderous applause as the guests eagerly stand to their feet — Atsumu thinks it’s Ginjima whistling somewhere to his right, but it could honestly be one of the EJP Raijin players too.
Suna laughs, head thrown back, before he’s dragged in for another kiss from his now-husband, and it’s the happiest Atsumu has seen Suna in all the years they’ve known each other.
But as the two newly wedded grooms make their way down the aisle, showered with congratulations on either side, Atsumu’s eyes linger on someone else standing directly opposite him instead.
Sakusa’s face, unmasked and clear of blemishes or shine — unlike the annoying spot on the tip of Atsumu’s nose — is trained on his cousin, shoulders set back and clapping demurely.
Handsome has always been a description that Atsumu unthinkingly attached to Sakusa, just out of distant observation, along with other words that might paint the other man in a lesser light.
(“ So prickly, Omi-kun,” and “No, the mugs go here, we went over this yesterday!” — )
Assurance fits Sakusa like a coat Atsumu’s never seen on him, but instantly knows it was made to be worn by Sakusa alone.
And it makes Atsumu think about peeling it back, just to see if the old Sakusa Kiyoomi who would scrunch up his nose at the mention of bugs, and who had been agonizing with the decision to leave and pursue volleyball overseas was still somewhere underneath it all.
Five years before the wedding
The last time Atsumu glimpsed at his phone, it was just past three in the morning.
He’s not sure how many minutes have elapsed since then — but it doesn’t matter anyway. Coach is going to take one look at their haggard expressions in — fuck, less than four hours? — when they arrive for training and make sure they do suicide drills until he and Sakusa are blue in the face.
But maybe it’ll be worth it, he thinks, after finally learning what the hell has crawled up Sakusa’s ass for the past two weeks, with how odd Sakusa has been acting, all one-word answers and brushing him off. And it was odd, because Atsumu’s seen the guy shiver in disgust at the sight of a spider at this point of their cohabitation, and yet the other man has been tight-lipped whenever Atsumu poked and prodded at him, despite Atsumu’s best efforts.
Until he called (on his phone, because Sakusa’s weird like that) Atsumu, asking him if they could talk in the living room. That was around three hours ago, just as Atsumu was getting ready to sleep.
A large yawn escapes him, and Atsumu contemplates slapping himself awake.
Maybe it’ll be kind of worth it, he amends.
On the other end of the couch, Sakusa’s favorite worn blanket is wrapped around his lanky form, only his hands peeking out to hold a cup of tea that’s definitely lukewarm now as he stares into space.
“Honestly, it sounds like a pretty good deal to me. Why’re ya thinkin so hard about it, then?”
Sakusa jerks up, like he’s completely forgotten Atsumu was in the room with him. The tea sloshes a bit over his hand, and Atsumu leans to the left to grab the tissue box from their coffee table, tossing it over to Sakusa with a lazy flick of his wrist. The box lands somewhere on Sakusa’s thigh, and he mumbles a quiet thanks as he cleans up, putting the tea aside as well.
Once he’s dabbed at his wrist enough times to stop avoiding the question, he looks up at Atsumu, and shrugs.
In the post-3 a.m. dim light of the living room, sprawled on their couch, Sakusa’s lost expression is as uncharacteristic as their current conversation.
Finally, he exhales. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for me to start playing in an international team?”
Atsumu bites the inside of his cheek. Whether in exasperation or to suppress another yawn, he’s not quite sure. “You’re barely twenty-five, Omi-kun.”
“And most athletes start right after college, if not earlier — it’s just logical if they wanted to make a name for themselves in the international circuit.”
Somehow, Atsumu resists the urge to throw a pillow at him. He’s not sure where this show of restraint is coming from — maybe it’s the thought that he won’t be playing beside Sakusa, come this time next year.
A warped way of not kicking Sakusa while he’s down, so to speak.
(No, Atsumu isn’t feeling sad about it. He’ll show Sakusa he can succeed on home ground too.)
Still, he snorts, and pokes at Sakusa’s knee with his toe, not even bothering to roll his eyes at Sakusa’s put-upon grimace. “Yeah? So does that mean yer regrettin’ joining us first?”
Maybe Atsumu has stolen all of the restraint in their apartment for tonight, because Sakusa frowns at him, and bluntly points out, “This is literally your final year with the Jackals, Miya.”
They haven’t really talked about that, not since the announcement two months ago. And then training had amped up for the upcoming tournament, which meant coming home being worked to the bone nearly all the time. Their shared apartment has seen better days; Atsumu’s pretty sure the curry takeout they had two weeks ago is growing an entirely new specimen in the back of the fridge.
Atsumu hadn’t thought Sakusa had cared enough to remember, but …
“I was here longer,” is the only thing his sleep-deprived brain can come up with for a response.
Sakusa huffs. His tea grows cold as he talks about the team that scouted him, voice growing softer, tinged with anticipation, and Atsumu engraves the rest of the night in the part of his mind that looks a lot like lost chances.
Present day, 45 minutes after the wedding
Despite Bokuto’s recent attempts at making Atsumu “cultured” (he completely blames Akaashi’s newfound love of subscription boxes, one of which happens to be a wine subscription, what the actual hell), he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what sort of notes were in the wine that Komori — Motoya, he internally corrects himself — and Suna have picked out for the reception.
Only that there isn’t enough alcohol in it for Atsumu to start contemplating on asking Sakusa for a dance, like he ever had a chance in the first place.
And yet.
It’s easy to spot Sakusa. Despite the confidence around his shoulders, Atsumu only has to glance around at one, two pillars in the reception ballroom where the lights don’t quite reach to find a head of curls absently bobbing to the music, pointedly away from the ruckus in the middle of the dance floor that seems to be made up of former and current V. League members, as well as both of the husbands’ fellow high school alumni.
Atsumu sneaks around the other guests, avoiding a flailing arm or two, and feels his heart beginning to climb up his throat the closer he gets to Sakusa, who looks up before Atsumu’s even within 15 feet in proximity. His steady gaze is fixed on him while Atsumu internally berates his past self from five minutes ago for this idea.
(Never mind his past self from five years ago, who wouldn’t even begin to consider the situation he’s put himself in.)
“This isn’t a great hiding spot,” is the first thing that leaves Atsumu’s mouth that doesn’t sound like a taunt, or a cheesy come-on. Or both.
Sakusa’s brow arches while the rest of his features remain impassive.
There’s amusement there, Atsumu knows. Even without seeing Sakusa’s face every day, now that he’s in a different team and Sakusa in a different country, Atsumu remembers enough.
A twitch underneath his eye. The slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Something in his eyes grows bright, and Atsumu has been seeing it all day today, and if he wasn’t entrenched in denial, he’d say it was directed at him.
“I wasn’t trying to hide,” Sakusa answers dryly, arms crossed over his chest.
Distantly, Atsumu wonders what the hell do international volleyball players eat to bulk up so much.
He drags his gaze upwards, away from the swell of Sakusa’s pecs in the suit, back towards Sakusa’s eyes.
(They’re brighter, and Atsumu can only hope it’s dim enough right now that Sakusa can’t see his cheeks giving away his embarrassment.)
Atsumu huffs. “Yer not gonna say hi to everyone else? ‘S been a while since ya last saw them, right?”
At that, Sakusa straightens up, cocking his head to the side.
There’s something else besides amusement flickering in that stare, and Atsumu’s starting to think maybe coming over here was the best-worst idea he’s had when it comes to Sakusa Kiyoomi. Not that he hasn’t had a lot of those, but he’s rusty and out of practice.
“You do realize I had to contact everyone involved on Motoya’s side for the wedding, right? I’ve run out of things to talk about with them over the last three months of catching up.”
Ah .
Embarrassment washes over Atsumu like he’s at his first fan greeting, falling over his feet in an attempt to make a good impression.
But instead of his teammates’ sympathetic expressions, he’s met with Sakusa’s quiet exhale, barely audible over the ‘80s music (Suna’s selection, he knows. He had to sit through the whole thing with Gin and Samu last month) that’s being played by the DJ —
And then long, steady fingers curl around his arm as Sakusa steps closer, eyes softer than Atsumu has ever seen them.
“But you’ve been more elusive than the rest of them,” Sakusa says, his other hand coming up to loosely wrap over Atsumu’s hip. “Even though we’re sharing a room for this wedding. Not gonna say hi to me properly?”
“An apartment with separate rooms,” Atsumu weakly corrects him, not doing anything to dislodge Sakusa’s hold on him, somehow finding a second wind as he frowns at the other man. “And I did, asshole. We talked a bunch during the fitting before ya had to rush off and do other wedding stuff. And then I don’t hear anything from ya, or see yer face at all until yesterday evening when I checked in.”
Sakusa purses his lips. “An apartment,” he acquiesces. “Then that was my fault, I guess.”
And he glances down, right before he sweeps his right hand up, underneath Atsumu’s suit jacket, and the heat of Sakusa’s palm through the thin fabric of his shirt, resting over his waistband causes Atsumu’s breath to hitch. His back straightens up at the sudden contact, accidentally pushing him forward, right into the space neither of them have chosen to tread but have always known existed between them.
Nothing could have prepared Atsumu for this, as Sakusa leans forward, and Atsumu swallows, lips already beginning to part; whether to inhale, or to prepare himself for a kiss, he’s not sure.
“Hi, Atsumu,” Sakusa whispers.
Atsumu shuts his eyes for a long moment. His own hands have found their way to the hem of Sakusa’s suit jacket, tentatively rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “Hey, Omi-kun,” he answers, desperately hopeful.
When he thinks he’s ready to look, Atsumu’s met with the sight of faint laugh lines around the edges of Sakusa’s mouth, just a little above his own. Years later, and Atsumu hasn’t forgotten the scant couple of inches Sakusa has over him.
But it feels almost like he’s being towered over now, especially when Sakusa smiles without restraint, and says:
“Your waist is still as tiny as ever, huh?”
Three months before the wedding: The fitting
Time has been unbearably kind to Sakusa Kiyoomi, in Atsumu’s humble but disgruntled opinion.
At thirty years old, Atsumu can confidently say that this is, perhaps, the best Sakusa’s ever looked — he’s still got a propensity to wear something hideously neon, as he shrugs off his blue hoodie, placing it on the coat rack of this tailor shop in Tokyo. “Motoya’s family and mine have had our clothes made here for three generations,” he informs them, greeting Suna’s groomsmen gathered at the shop: Osamu, Ginjima, and Atsumu himself.
Atsumu wasn’t prepared to see Sakusa’s easy smile today — the email he’d sent Atsumu for the appointment was direct and only had the time, place, and a request for the confirmation of his attendance.
But Sakusa only had to say, “It’s good to see you again, Miya,” for Atsumu to gape dumbly at the warmth in Sakusa’s tone. Osamu had wrinkled his nose and said, “Just call us by our first names, Sakusa-kun, ‘s gonna get confusin’ pretty soon.”
Which meant Atsumu has to deal with the sound of his name in Sakusa’s mouth as if it doesn't weigh like unfamiliarity, despite the time they’ve known each other, a slight upward tilt in “tsu” that doesn’t sound like anyone else saying his name.
(Trust Sakusa Kiyoomi to be contrary in this manner too, aside from his damn bulked up physique and zen demeanor.)
The tailor, an older gentleman that patted Sakusa’s arm warmly in greeting, is quick and precise in his measurements, but he turns to Sakusa for his opinions from time to time, which means Sakusa is picking up fabric to drape different patterns over the rest of them, his smile from earlier replaced by a thoughtful frown.
That day, Atsumu learns what it feels like to have Sakusa’s eyes raking over his shoulders and chest while he holds up cloth against Atsumu’s body, every brush of his hand over Atsumu’s thin t-shirt sparking a heat he thought he’d long buried.
For someone supposedly averse to touch, Sakusa is certainly not shy about it.
Atsumu reminds himself to keep breathing, eyes desperately fixed on his own expression instead of Sakusa behind him, who quietly directs him to keep his arms up, legs apart, not too far, Mi — Atsumu, good, stay still for me?
The grip on his waist is firm, and Atsumu belatedly remembers the hem of his t-shirt is a little short when he lifts his arms and a couple of Sakusa’s fingers slip under. He straightens up at the feeling, and Sakusa pauses.
“You alright?”
Blunt as always. Breathing becomes a little easier and Atsumu nods, though he still doesn’t trust himself to speak.
In the mirror, Sakusa nods after a beat, and goes back to slowly tearing apart Atsumu’s sanity as he wills himself to not react to his former teammate’s thumb dragging tiny circles over and over against his back, probably in some sort of attempt to soothe him.
“Doesn’t seem your waist measurements have changed much over the last few years,” Sakusa comments at one point, and Atsumu babbles something about his workout routine and diet, instead of asking for Sakusa’s other hand to hold his waist so they could both find out if his fingers meet in the middle.
The moment Sakusa lets go of him, Atsumu manages to squeak out an excuse about a package he’s forgotten to pick up — Osamu doesn’t even bother looking at him, snickering silently next to Washio, who, bless his soul, has been too busy making sure Ginjima didn’t drop his latte on one of the rolls of fabric — and makes a strategic escape, I was not running away, Osamu, shut yer trap.
Half an hour later, safe in his apartment and face buried in his pillow, it takes Atsumu too little time to find his release as he reimagines his and Sakusa’s positions from earlier, sans clothes and wondering if Sakusa could just hold him up by his grip on Atsumu’s body and Sakusa’s cock inside him.
Present day, 55 minutes after the wedding
They’re gonna get kicked out , Atsumu thinks deliriously, back arching when Sakusa squeezes his waist, fingertips and the edge of his palms digging into muscle and fat, forcing a low groan out of Atsumu. When he looks down, there’s a scant few inches between Sakusa’s middle fingers and Atsumu is dizzy with the rush of desire that knocks right into him.
“Omi-kun,” he wheezes. “Ya plannin’ to crush me or something?”
The huff of laughter Sakusa lets out tickles his ear, but it’s his words that send a shiver down Atsumu’s spine.
“Something like that,” he murmurs, loosening his hold, only to sweep his hands down Atsumu’s ass, fingers boldly curled around the low curves, dipping his head down to nose at Atsumu’s neck when he throws his head back in surprise, trying to find purchase by gripping the sides of Sakusa’s jacket. Atsumu wonders if he could afford dry cleaning for the suit if he wrinkles it too much. “Are you finally gonna let me?”
Finally?
“We’re gonna talk properly about this later,” Atsumu hisses when he finds his voice, stuttering when Sakusa starts to nibble his throat. “God, Omi — hotel room, now . C’mon already.”
They slip past the others with little fanfare, most of them drunk on wine and celebration, but Atsumu is heady with the hopeful expectation that he’s going to see Sakusa naked soon; that he’s going to be naked in front of Sakusa, if he has anything to say about it.
Outside of the ballroom, Sakusa halts in his tracks, long enough for Atsumu to wonder if the other man had a sudden change of mind.
But all Sakusa does is reach out for Atsumu’s wrist, and he glances around, eyes narrowed at the number of people still milling about in the area. Atsumu doesn’t get to say a word before he’s dragged along, further and further from the crowd as they keep their heads down and walk towards the lifts on the other side of the floor.
Sakusa doesn’t let go of him throughout the entire ride, and for once, Atsumu keeps his mouth shut, in case anything he says derails their plans.
The doors slide open to their floor, and less than a minute later, Sakusa releases him in front of their room —
Only to press him up against the door, those same hands that had driven Atsumu insane for the past three months now cupping Atsumu’s cheeks tenderly , dark eyes studying him carefully.
“Is this okay?” Sakusa whispers.
Atsumu doesn’t bother hiding the stupidly wide grin that breaks across his face, and he rolls his eyes. “I’ve been waitin’ , Sakusa.” The ‘ for a long time ’ lingers between them, and Sakusa mutters, “Never said anything either,” before stealing Atsumu’s chance to retort with the first press of his lips against Atsumu’s.
Over five years of thinking about this moment, and Atsumu’s imagination absolutely pales in comparison with reality.
Sakusa kisses with starved intention, yet Atsumu’s mind races with more, more, more , arms locked around Sakusa’s shoulders.
A muffled moan escapes Atsumu when Sakusa’s hands tilt his head, the kiss firm and relentless from the get-go, and Atsumu only has a few seconds of trying to bring him closer before Sakusa shifts his hands to bring Atsumu’s arms over his head, rendering him helpless as they keep kissing and kissing , learning the way the other tastes when their tongues begin to slide against each other’s.
Their breathing grows shallow, but Atsumu thinks he could stay here like this, coaxing the soft groans from Sakusa with every swipe of his tongue, while Sakusa pins him down with one hand over Atsumu’s wrists, a muscled thigh nudging Atsumu’s legs apart.
The press of muscle against Atsumu’s half-hard erection causes him to short circuit for a moment, overcome with sudden pleasure. He dislodges himself from Sakusa’s insistent kisses to whine aloud, eyes shut and panting breathlessly which only gets the other man to start sucking bites against his throat.
“Hah — O-Omi,” he falters, grinding up against the pressure greedily, “Ngh, you better stop before I make ya fuck me right here in the hallway.”
That elicits a tighter grip around his wrists and a groan swallowed up in one last kiss Atsumu barely responds to, caught by surprise. When Sakusa pulls back just far enough for Atsumu to take the rest of his features in, there’s a string of spit clinging between their bottom lips, but it’s Sakusa’s expression that makes Atsumu swear aloud.
Pink taints his pale cheeks, black pupils blown out, and Atsumu can’t look away as Sakusa swipes his tongue over his swollen lip, effectively severing the string.
“Honestly, I’m tempted,” Sakusa says hoarsely, leaning back and nudging his nose against Atsumu’s. A shaky exhale leaves Atsumu at the gentle touch, at odds with the way his neck is already beginning to sting. “But I’m not gonna risk anyone else looking at you the first time I fuck you, Atsumu. That’s for me alone.”
“Possessive,” Atsumu retorts weakly, instead of diving back in to shove his tongue down Sakusa’s throat like his instincts are telling him to right now.
Sakusa’s answering chuckle sounds sheepish, far from the awkward young man Atsumu remembers him to be. “Sorry,” he says and Atsumu knows he doesn’t really mean it, leaning back to study Atsumu’s face. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he adds quietly, and it finally snaps Atsumu back into action, taking advantage of the way Sakusa’s hold has slackened above him to pull his hands away, pawing at the front of Sakusa’s suit.
He offers a, “keycard’s in yer pocket, Omi,” when Sakusa splutters, mumbling a quick, “yes!” of triumph before turning around to unlock the door, frantically pushing it open before he decides to jump Sakusa himself and scars potential bystanders in the process.
Atsumu strides forward, clumsily kicking off his shoes in his haste to get Sakusa to make good on his word, and turns around to say, “Your bedroom’s closer — unless ya don’t wanna mess up the sheets.”
Sakusa arches a brow, pulling at his tie in a sharp move that nearly sends Atsumu to his knees right there in front of the door.
“I’m hoping we do, actually,” he answers, carefully rolling up his tie, and slowly unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, while Atsumu begins to make his way towards Sakusa’s room with bated breath, blindly reaching for the doorknob and walking backwards through the doorway.
Neither of them are particularly careful about removing most their clothes after that, only stopping to fold them over the back of the chairs before Atsumu’s pulling Sakusa in by his waist, lowering his head to leave open-mouthed kisses over Sakusa’s chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne and deliberately laving his tongue over a perked nipple just to feel Sakusa shudder against him.
He only lets go when Sakusa pushes him down onto the bed, one arm around his back to stop him from bouncing on the mattress, but it’s a moot point when Sakusa chooses that moment to grind their erections together, still trapped in their underwear.
Atsumu hisses, knees bracketing Sakusa’s hips as he angles his hips to chase more of that electric sensation down his back, palms restlessly sweeping all over Sakusa’s body.
His hands end up around Sakusa’s waist, and satisfaction fills Atsumu at the sharp gasp that leaves Sakusa’s mouth when Atsumu pulls the other man down onto his own body, making sure their clothed cocks slide against each other lewdly, a mock interpretation of what Sakusa might feel like when he’s on top of Atsumu, thrusting his cock inside. And Atsumu could cum just like this, he knows.
But Sakusa had promised him a fuck, and Atsumu is determined to make him cash in on that promise.
So he loosens his grip, moving to cup Sakusa’s cheeks and coaxing him into a kiss, and another kiss, before leaning back just far enough to say, “Get the lube, Omi-kun,” and lets go of Sakusa, impatiently pushing down the band of his underwear.
For once, Sakusa has no retort — he pushes himself on one arm above Atsumu, and reaches over to the nightstand beside the bed, and grabs a bottle of lube after rummaging in the top drawer for a few seconds, unceremoniously dropping it beside them.
“That was conveniently close by,” Atsumu comments.
He doesn’t expect the faint flush on Sakusa’s cheeks, dark eyes stubbornly not meeting Atsumu’s curious gaze. “You were walking around in the world’s smallest towel last night,” Sakusa admits, and moves to sit up on his knees, wordlessly pushing Atsumu’s legs apart, gaze shifting to Atsumu’s crotch, laid bare before him.
Atsumu remembers key details from last night a little differently: he’d accidentally spilled soda on the bath towel, and had to use a smaller one to wrap around his body when he’d left the bathroom, nodding at Sakusa as he passed the other man to go to his room. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, and yet Sakusa’s acting like Atsumu had done a striptease in front of him.
“Had to rub one out before I slept just so I’d stop thinking about what was under there,” Sakusa added, and Atsumu fights to keep his eyes open when Sakusa chooses that moment to wrap a firm hand around Atsumu’s cock, stroking it once from base to tip.
Somehow, Atsumu manages to find his voice again to joke, “Too bad the walls are thick,” while Sakusa removes his hand from Atsumu to reach for the lube.
The crack of the bottle cap opening is followed by Sakusa’s blithe, “That’s good. It means you don’t have to stay quiet,” ironically rendering Atsumu speechless for a moment.
He comes back to himself when Sakusa shifts back, one steady arm looped underneath Atsumu’s knee, and Atsumu shivers at the slick feeling of a finger presses against his entrance, as Sakusa drags his lips over Atsumu’s calf in a languid manner at the same time. A soft noise is punched out of Atsumu, and he can’t tear his gaze away from the way Sakusa begins trailing kisses on the sensitive skin of his thighs, gently rubbing over puckered muscle until Atsumu loosens up enough to let a knuckle inside.
Atsumu has fucked, and been fucked, too many times to count at this point of his life, but he’s beginning to learn that only Sakusa Kiyoomi could unravel him so completely this early in the game.
A knuckle eventually becomes three fingers in Atsumu’s ass and bite marks all over his legs that Sakusa laves over with his tongue, soothing the sting before doubling down on them with sharp flashes of his teeth, pulling more groans from Atsumu. His body’s caught between the warring sensations, unsure if he wants to chase the fullness in him or the heat of Sakusa’s mouth, but the choice is taken away from him anyway, trapped under Sakusa’s bulk, trying his best not to climax now.
Not when he knows there’s more to come.
So he finally musters the strength to lean up, holding Sakusa’s wrist resolutely, voice hoarse when he demands (whines, really), “How much longer are ya gonna make me wait?”
At that, Sakusa tips his head up to study Atsumu’s face, before he presses a final peck on the edge of Atsumu’s knee, movements just a little clumsy as he takes off his underwear and moves into place, hands on Atsumu’s calves splayed open, before pausing. His throat visibly bobs, and he looks at Atsumu.
“I … I forgot the condom. Do you have one?”
Atsumu swallows, and shakes his head. “Wasn’t really plannin’ on getting with anyone here. Not when we were supposed to be sharin’ a hotel room together.” He exhales, heart in his throat as he squeezes Sakusa’s hip. “I just got tested recently, and… There hasn’t been anyone. Not for a long while. So.”
Sakusa nods, eyes fluttering shut for a second when the head of his cock catches the edge of Atsumu’s relaxed hole. “Same,” he says, and quietly adds, “For me too. The team just had their annual check-up before I came here and I haven’t — not for months. I trust you, Atsumu.”
On the court, a lifetime ago, Atsumu hears. Here now, where only the two of them matter.
Atsumu grins up at him, more emotional than he thinks he should be. “Why the hell are we still talking, then?”
The answering smile on Sakusa’s face is one Atsumu thinks he could never tire of, before it’s wiped by an expression Atsumu is sure he’s mirroring: lips parted in a rough exhale, eyes rolling back and face twisted in pleasure, as Sakusa starts to slip inside.
It’s slow at first, like Sakusa’s trying to sink himself inside Atsumu inch by inch, and Atsumu’s forced to take the glacial pace — he’s tempted to just slam down and have all of Sakusa, but then Sakusa’s voice breaks on a soft “fuck”, his hold on Atsumu’s waist tightening.
The knowledge that Sakusa is already this overwhelmed makes Atsumu’s chest melt, and he carefully pulls Sakusa close, encouragingly murmurs, “Omi-kun, kiss me,” and lets Sakusa map out the ridges of Atsumu’s mouth while gradually burying the rest of his length inside him. They stay like that for a while, with small, barely-there movements of Sakusa’s hips, lips sliding together until Sakusa noticeably relaxes, and starts to fuck Atsumu for real at last.
Sakusa’s not the biggest that Atsumu’s taken, but the combination of a lack of a barrier between them and the fact that Atsumu has wondered for years what this would feel like is enough to quickly turn his mind into mush; whatever was left of his composure earlier dissipates when Sakusa picks up his pace just a bit faster, enough for Atsumu to want more of that burn against his rim, the feeling of being full with Sakusa’s cock.
“More, Omi-kun,” he groans, breathing choppy with each deep thrust Sakusa makes, the switch in his demeanor noticeable now that Atsumu’s inhibitions begin to fall away. “C’mon — hah — “
And Sakusa brushes their noses together, the heat of his words and mouth inches away from Atsumu’s lips. “More of what, Atsumu? Tell me, use your words.”
“Gimme more ,” he gasps out, spilling thoughts that had been brewing in his mind for nearly a decade now. “Always, oh shit — always wondered what it’d feel like, havin’ ya like this.”
Sakusa pauses, leaning down to mouth at Atsumu’s jaw, only the tip of his cock keeping Atsumu open. “Yeah?”
“Mm — ” Atsumu’s breath hitches, and he flashes a smirk that Sakusa probably can’t see. “Yeah, Omi-kun. So are ya gonna keep fuckin’ me like I’m gonna break, or — ” he clenches down on purpose, feeling victorious at the choked off noise that escapes Sakusa, “Will ya give it to me like I asked?”
Silence greets his challenge for one long moment, and then —
“ Oh shit !”
— Sakusa slams back inside with none of the care and precision he’d shown earlier, forcing Atsumu to take and take as he scrambles for purchase on the sheets underneath him, legs flailing in the air for a moment before Sakusa pins them down against Atsumu’s chest with his own body, while he keeps Atsumu from being pushed back by the force of his thrusts.
“So, oh,” Atsumu trembles all over, body arching helplessly, “So deep — fuck!”
The pace turns brutal in too little time, and Atsumu isn’t sure what will drive him mad with embarrassment first; the unforgiving slap, slap, slap of Sakusa’s hips against the meat of his ass, sure to bruise after this, or the obscene moans that pour out of Atsumu.
But Sakusa doesn’t hold back either, low groans echoing in Atsumu’s ears, and Atsumu catches him mumbling, “You — I waited too damn long, Atsumu, hnng, god ,” as Sakusa tilts Atsumu’s ass higher, successfully rubbing against his prostate in the next push.
The back of Sakusa’s shoulders must be scratched up from the way Atsumu desperately grabs them, nails digging into muscle as Sakusa pushes him closer and closer over the edge, his own moans turning into high-pitched cries when Sakusa doesn’t let up on ramming against that spot inside him.
“Tell me,” Sakusa pants, “How’s it feel, Atsumu?”
Atsumu’s tongue is heavy, but he manages to eek out, “Good,” in a long, drawn-out sob, “Omi, Kiyoomi, please — ”
“Gonna ruin you,” Sakusa murmurs, nosing at his cheek sweetly, in sharp contrast with the way he’s actively making a home for his cock inside Atsumu’s pliant body with each plunge, the rest of his words coming out in a stuttered mess. “Make you mine for real, gonna cum, where — where do you want it, sweetheart?”
The pet name proves to be Atsumu’s undoing, and he frantically reaches for his cock, gasping, “Inside — inside me,” with the sheer level of greed and possessiveness in Sakusa’s tone, honest in its need, serving to push Atsumu over the edge.
He barely catches the tail end of Sakusa’s orgasm washing over the other man, who pounds aimlessly as he unloads inside Atsumu; the hot, wet release causes Atsumu to shudder when he feels it leaking out past his undoubtedly swollen rim, until Sakusa finally comes to a stop, carefully slumped over Atsumu.
With Sakusa’s back bowed and face buried in the crook of Atsumu’s throat, the only noises left in the aftermath are the sounds of their heavy breathing, the air conditioner running in the background, and Atsumu’s heart beating with hope for something , now that they’ve crossed this line.
Neither of them speak for a while, and it’s Sakusa who lifts his head first, dark eyes filled with an emotion Atsumu thinks he can dare to name now after all these years, before their lips meet together, slow and chaste, Sakusa still nestled inside him.
When they separate at last, Sakusa simply says, “Let’s clean up, and then we can talk.”
“Yeah,” Atsumu sighs, wincing at the tacky feeling of cum over his stomach and inside him. “But,” he adds, catching Sakusa’s eye, “After that, I’m gonna suck ya off, and we can run up the minibar bill, since it’s on the newlyweds’ tab.”
Sakusa grins at him. It’s fond and helpless. Atsumu hopes he sees more of it. “You’ve gotten smarter since I left.”
“Hilarious,” Atsumu answers, but he squeezes around Sakusa once, relishing the look of pained pleasure that washes over Sakusa’s features. “The quicker ya get off of me, the sooner I can show ya what this smart mouth can do.”