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Somewhere down the hallway of a karaoke bar, past the private rooms where all his teammates are gathered in a heap of drunken chaos, Atsumu finds himself in front of the mirror of a restroom.
One of his hands is held aloft. Overhead, the lamp casts a hazy silhouette along the contours of his fingers, seeped at the edges with gold. Atsumu crooks the digits with a considering hum, examines the way his index and middle fingers, secured with sports tape, bend at the first joint.
Stiff, he observes.
A frown settles on his face at the sight.
It looks so damn ugly.
It felt ugly when it came up, too. They’d started bleeding after a particularly tricky set, which Atsumu had failed to notice until Shouyou had gasped out “Atsumu-san, your hand!” and Omi-kun had recoiled when Atsumu brought it to close his face in confusion. The team had to take a time-out just to get it all sorted—it’s always a nasty affair whenever it happens, even if it’s something Atsumu had witnessed countless of times. To make matters worse, it had affected Atsumu’s play. It was only by the power of a damn miracle that they found themselves heading towards the tail end of the match.
Any longer than that, with Atsumu’s hand situation? They’d lose out on their win.
What then, if it went down like that. Not that Atsumu’s the type to dwell on the past, but hell, if it wasn’t that close. Atsumu can power through annoying situations most of the time through sheer will, but it’s always a nightmare to set when his fingers feel like splintering open instead.
So that’s one thing.
There’s also the pride that a setter carries in the success of their own team. After all, it’s setters who orchestrate most of the team’s attacks. Atsumu’s points are his points, the hitters’ points are also his. Hell, their pride is an extension of his own pride. Even so, there’s a certain dignity in finishing a game without making an ass of himself. Really, Atsumu can do without all the extra commotion when said commotion was not on his own terms, thanks.
So all right, they took home the victory. Fine. But his own individual pride—
It took a hit.
Atsumu closes his raised hand in a fist, wilting against the counter.
Worst of all, it all went down in front of Shinsuke, too!
A knock on the door pulls him out of his pity party.
“It’s occupied!” Atsumu snaps towards the direction of the sound, irritated.
He’s about to yell in indignation when the door opens—who the hell enters a damn restroom when someone else is using it?—only for his voice to die out in his throat. He can recognize that pale head of hair peeking in anywhere.
“Shinsuke,” Atsumu exclaims. His fist falls to his side.
Speak of the devil.
“I figured I’d find you cooped up in here,” Shinsuke says.
He steps inside the restroom, facing Atsumu as he shuts the door behind him. The maroon button-down he wore for the occasion sets a nice contrast against his skin. His eyes scan Atsumu from where he stands, trailing down his figure before they flicker back to his face. “You looked like you sucked on something sour when you left earlier.”
“Ah, well.” Atsumu grimaces, waves his unwrapped hand around. “Annoying day, annoying lot.” He sighs, head motioning to the direction of the private rooms. “Dunno if it’s the old age talking, but even I can’t handle them sometimes.”
“Is that so.”
The lock clicks, and Atsumu hears Shinsuke stride closer. The gravity of his attention is almost a tangible thing on Atsumu. His face is a still pool of water; beneath it, Atsumu detects a hint of amusement swimming in Shinsuke’s stare. “I’m sure at twenty-five you’ve caused the team a lot more trouble than one night of celebration did to you.”
Shinsuke holds out his arms, expectant in the way he lifts an eyebrow.
“Well?”
“...That’s not true,” huffs Atsumu, a tinge of a whine creeping into his voice even as he tumbles into Shinsuke’s arms. The words he intended to say to defend his honor dissolve on his tongue when Shinsuke presses himself closer, tucking his face in the crook of his neck.
On instinct, Atsumu sinks into the embrace. A content sigh falls from his lips at the proximity of their bodies—he can already feel the weight of the day melting from his shoulders the instant that they touch.
Seriously, just one hug from Shinsuke and he’s weak like this? Atsumu almost feels embarrassed for himself. But then again, he’s too busy basking in his boyfriend’s attention to even care. Who’s complaining?
A gentle pressure in the shape of Shinsuke’s mouth rests on the pulse point of his neck, warm against skin.
“You’ve done well to hold on until the last point in spite of your injury,” Shinsuke remarks after a brief lull, voice low, “and I have no doubts you’ve persevered till the end, because you’re stubborn and hardy just like that. It’s always been one of your strong qualities even back in high school, if you ignore the fact that it’d get you in trouble half of the time.”
Atsumu etches on a shameless grin, if only to counteract the sudden rush of affection that swells between his ribs at Shinsuke’s words.
“S’that a compliment I’m hearing?” Atsumu says, conveniently ignoring the last bit. “Aw, Shin, you’ll make me blush.”
Beneath him, Shinsuke lifts his head back to give him a look.
“Even with that setback I know you did your best to perform at one hundred earlier. You know it yourself.” Shinsuke tilts his head in thought. “So what are you brooding about all alone here, then?”
Atsumu’s smile freezes.
“Um.”
“Knowing you, I bet it’d be something like, ‘Ah, well that just happened, I must have looked so uncool in front of my boyfriend,’” Shinsuke drawls. “Is that right?”
Atsumu shoves Shinsuke’s face back into his neck, caught. “Nope! Not at all.”
Every time, even after years of being together, since his second year of high school until now! Leave it to Shinsuke to read Atsumu like he’s one of the books on Shinsuke’s shelf, seriously, what the hell?
Throughout the duration of their relationship he’s gotten accustomed to Shinsuke dissecting his whole thought process out loud whenever he pleases, and it’s a Shinsuke thing, really, to do all that sort of... brainy, analyze-y stuff when he’s not busy tending to the farm. It keeps his mind sharp, he told Atsumu once, just as farmwork keeps his body strong. At one point, they even made a whole game out of it, seated across each other at the engawa overlooking the rice fields, thinking up random scenarios and guessing what everyone else would think out of Atsumu’s sheer incredulity that Shinsuke was too good at it.
He really was too good at it.
But still, give the man some grace, all right? No need to air out his dirty laundry—let him brood in peace!
Atsumu feels a huff of a chuckle, the tinkle of a bell, but Shinsuke doesn’t deign to give him a response. Instead, his head droops even lower on Atsumu’s shoulder, cheek burrowing against the muscle. The line of his body sags against Atsumu, who places his weight on his heels to accommodate the man, who all of the sudden has turned soft like butter.
Nestled close like this, Shinsuke heaves an exhale. It sounds like the air had to be hauled out deep from the recesses of his lungs. The motion of it causes the arms secured around his body to rise and fall, and it looks harmless and ordinary, the action—but.
Knowing Shinsuke, a big sigh like this usually hints at something else.
Atsumu’s brows furrow in concern.
“Huh. Look at you.” Atsumu reaches to poke at Shinsuke’s cheek. “Awfully sticky today, aren’tcha. I mean, it feels great that you’re clinging to me, but this isn’t your usual. Tipsy?”
A tipsy Shinsuke is something that Atsumu does not want to unleash in public, lest he wants to keep his sanity and pants intact for tonight, thank you very much.
“Drained,” Shinsuke breathes against his neck. Ah. His arms tighten around Atsumu’s waist, lips leaving a tinge of a burn on his skin as the words trail off from his mouth: “I got tired from the trip to Tokyo. The gym was too loud, and the crowd was larger than last year.”
“And my teammates?” Atsumu ventures a guess.
“And your teammates,” Shinsuke confirms.
He nods in understanding. “All right, yeah, that checks out. I’d get tired with Bokkun yelling in my ear drunk half of the time, too.”
“Don’t be rude, Atsumu.” Shinsuke receives a petulant noise in return. “They were a good lot, the bunch of them, but the noise was...” he sighs. “Mm. Let me recharge.”
Atsumu’s heart seizes in his throat at once.
“Recharge,” he echoes. A tiny bit perplexed, a little bit fascinated, and somewhat like Shinsuke has stolen all the air in his lungs. With a laugh almost close to hysterical, Atsumu pulls the smaller frame impossibly closer to his. “Think about how your words affect me, would ya? S’not good for my heart.”
“Be quiet.”
“Nah, don’t wanna,” Atsumu says, just to be contrarian. “Make me.”
In response: another huff, a drawn out inhale. The gust of a sigh melting into a solitary shake of another muffled chuckle. Even a provocation as light as this will draw the sound out. Shinsuke’s lips press at the juncture of Atsumu’s neck and shoulder, featherlike, caressing slow and deliberate right across where goosebumps arise. Ah.
Involuntarily, Atsumu’s head tilts back. As soon as his throat is exposed an eager mouth latches onto the skin, making a home at the spot behind his ear. Shinsuke leaves his mouth resting there, only the tiniest bit parted. A little bit damp.
Atsumu’s head feels like swimming all of a sudden.
Shinsuke’s lips feel like a brand on his neck, a warmth that feels altogether delicate and intense. Every puff of air sends ripples of heat down his body; Atsumu’s neck has always been so sensitive, and this man in front of him is more than aware of the knowledge—is taking advantage of it, in fact.
Shinsuke, usually so reserved with his affection, is draping himself all over Atsumu as if it’ll take the entire world to wrest himself apart. Breathing hot against his neck, his ear. Shoulders pressed against shoulders, hip against hip.
A little teasing and this is what he gets in return.
“So that’s how it is.” Atsumu’s voice wobbles as he says it. At this point his eyes are at half mast. “What was that about being tired? You wanna shut me up another way, s’that it? A nasty kind of recharge, this.”
Shinsuke’s mouth traces the line of his jaw, punctuating it with a kiss, before leaning in to whisper in his ear, “You’re the one whose mind is in the gutter.”
Atsumu’s throat bobs, blushing against Shinsuke. “I’m not the one being so—”
The cursory flick of a tongue draws a quiet noise out of his throat. Atsumu feels Shinsuke’s smile even without seeing it, the little sneak. A nip on the skin, a kiss to soften the sting. The sensation propels Atsumu to grab for purchase at the small of Shinsuke’s back, hands clutching at the fabric of his button-down. His head feels dazed, submerged in water as Shinsuke continues to map his neck, ever so soft. Ever so delicate.
“A little obsessed with my neck, arent’cha.” The words come out uneven. Breathy. Atsumu’s head turns as he accommodates the path that Shinsuke’s mouth travels, marking continuous lines of heat on skin. “Do that more and we’ll end up taking a lot longer in this bathroom than expected.”
“Mm. There’s one thing, actually.” A kiss. “That I haven’t told you yet.” Another.
“What,” Atsumu manages to let out through a shaky exhale.
“I missed you.”
It’s spoken in a whisper, in the span of a few seconds where Shinsuke lifts his mouth to murmur the words into the column of his throat. It sinks into his skin like honey.
Atsumu’s teeth catch on his lower lip in an attempt to quell the groan that fights to escape, or maybe to suppress the warmth that courses downwards to pool in his belly. His voice comes out in a hush.
“Yeah?”
The atmosphere has taken a different turn within a moment’s breath, and Atsumu finds himself trying to feign calm as if the temperature around him isn’t getting hotter, or as if he isn’t fighting to keep himself from pinning Shinsuke against the door and kissing him senseless. His fingers tug Shinsuke’s shirt free from where it’s tucked inside his slacks, creeping beneath the fabric to rub circles at Shinsuke’s back, thumbs skimming across the smooth expanse. Tape against skin.
“Tell me how much.”
He misses the proximity as soon as Shinsuke pulls back, but Atsumu opens his eyes nonetheless. In the breadth between their faces, with every exhale fanning against his skin, Atsumu recognizes the crimson sitting high on Shinsuke’s cheekbones, the blown pupils tinting his eyes darker. His eyes trail lower, tracing—fuck, Shinsuke’s lips. Slick with sheen, full and parted in waiting.
It’s been a while since he’s been close to Shinsuke like this, he realizes. How long has it exactly been? Two weeks? A month? The games and practices don’t provide much time for him to travel all the way down to the farm these days.
“Atsumu.”
A hand reaches to rest against the curve of a smooth cheek. Illuminated in gold in the dimness of the room, Shinsuke’s face holds an unspoken promise. Atsumu looks at him and sees desire reflected back.
“Atsumu,” he says again.
“Shinsuke.”
“Atsumu. ‘Tsumu.”
He closes his eyes.
Yes. Tell me, tell me.
Atsumu never gets to answer when Shinsuke’s lips touch his, soft. Searing. All at once Atsumu’s inhibitions set loose, an arm snaking its way tighter around a solid waist and a hand threading through pale silver and black. He feels as if he’s broken out of the ocean’s surface, catching the first rays of sunlight. Lungs filling with air. Alight, alive.
There’s the adrenaline of a game well played, and there’s this.
He sinks further into Shinsuke’s arms, allows Shinsuke to turn and press him against the door, lets his lips brush against his gently, assuredly, insistently. It’s a different kind of high, this buoyancy he feels, far unlike the surge in his veins at the height of a match point or the roaring of the home crowd. Atsumu kisses Shinsuke back in equal measure, feels the fingertips tracing plot points on the stretch of his back take him further in. Slant of mouth, caress of a hand. Everything Shinsuke does is designed to dismantle Atsumu with careful deliberation, piece by piece.
Shinsuke. Shinsuke. Shin.
“There is a reason,” Shinsuke mutters, brushing his lips against Atsumu, “that I locked the door on my way in.”
Atsumu’s knees buckle at his words. Feels himself twitch in his underwear at the implication. He’s almost certain it’s a whimper that broke free from his mouth.
“Fuck. Shin.”
“You like that?” Shinsuke whispers as he draws back. He rests his forehead against Atsumu, and he opens his eyes to see Shinsuke’s own locking him in place.
Fingers skate their way down Atsumu’s back, along the curve of his ass, the inner muscles of his thigh. Atsumu shivers with the movement. Up, up. Along the vee, past the jut of his hip.
He doesn’t even need to say it. He never does, not when Shinsuke’s sharp stare never fails to miss a singular detail. He’s watching Atsumu, now.
Before, in the early months of their relationship, Shinsuke moved with a sort of hesitance: hands ready to draw back, lips a careful, cautious weight against his, a hundred million questions flitting through his eyes. Uncharacteristic of someone so self-assured in his own right, of someone who used to command an entire team with only the pierce of his gaze.
Atsumu has always been great at drawing out a person’s full potential, though. He can lead people if he needs to.
Shinsuke, he discovers, has always been the one to show whatever he wants to say.
Now one of his hands is kneading Atsumu through the fabric of his jeans, and gods. Atsumu’s mouth falls open, vision going hazy. He feels himself filling out in his jeans. The back of his head thumps against the restroom door, exposing his throat—an invitation.
Shinsuke doesn’t budge. He remains where he is, hand moving in lazy, unhurried circles, pressure going light-heavy-light. Observing as Atsumu begins to twitch and gasp and unravel from his touch.
“You like that,” Shinsuke repeats, and it’s not even a question. Not anymore.
Atsumu, through the fog of arousal, looks at him from beneath his lashes: sun-warmed tan and maroon silk, irises golden brown in the light.
Answer me, his eyes say.
Atsumu nods.
The lamp from the wall limns the ghost of Shinsuke’s smile in a soft glow, and Atsumu wants. He wants, he wants.
“Shin,” he says, voice hoarse. “Touch me already.”
Shinsuke raises a brow at him, hand pausing in its ministrations. No—
“No—please. Shin.” Atsumu’s words take on a quality bordering on desperate. “Please. Please, touch me.”
Shinsuke says nothing, but at his response the hints of his smile becomes more pronounced, more satisfied, and he rewards Atsumu with a lingering kiss.
Atsumu’s chest blooms with relief at the contact, every part in his body warming all over. Involuntarily he chases the feeling of Shinsuke’s lips, trails after him even as Shinsuke draws back, only then to find himself pinned against the door by a palm on his chest. Atsumu’s arms fall to his sides.
Ah.
Atsumu has always prided himself on his strength. He wouldn’t make it as far as he did now if he wasn’t as strong, if not stronger, than his peers. Countless times he conditioned his body to its limits, fine-tuning it to reach its peak form, all so he could perform at his best and stand among the rest of the monsters in his generation.
In the face of one Kita Shinsuke, all the strength in his body crumbles.
Before him, Shinsuke regards him with an unmistakable heat in his gaze. Deft hands start to unbutton his jeans; he hears the pull of the zip, then it’s a warm weight on him, and then fuck, Shinsuke’s hand.
Atsumu releases a hiss of breath. His dick strains through the fabric of his boxers, throbs against a calloused palm. He’s so hard that he wants, he’s dizzy with it, mind filled with nothing but the singular need to bend Shinsuke over the restroom counter, fuck him hard and fast. Hear his moans smothered against a clenched fist, the filthy slap of skin on skin.
Atsumu so badly wants, but it’s not his call to make. He’s not the one in control now.
“Shin, please,” Atsumu murmurs, head slanting down. His mouth falls open on its own accord—a silent, imploring plea.
Shinsuke meets his lips halfway in a heated kiss.
It’s desire and deliverance and desperation, all at once.
Atsumu licks into Shinsuke’s mouth like a ravenous man getting his fill, drawing a sigh out of Shinsuke, who pushes himself into Atsumu as if he wants to mold their bodies together. He swallows Shinsuke’s quiet moans, relishes the taste of liquor that permeates their kisses. In the dimness of the room the proximity between them becomes a thousand times more condensed, the moment more magnified: nothing else but the fervor of Shinsuke’s kisses, the wet slide of their mouths, the movement of his fingers.
The tight hold around the outline of Atsumu’s shaft causes his hips to stutter, mouth breaking open in a gasp. Shuddering, he kisses Shinsuke once more, curling his tongue and feeling the wet heat inside. Atsumu feels a shivery groan against his mouth. Rough fingers curve against his nape, grazing at the underside of his head where bleached hair fades into a dark buzz.
He grabs hold of Shinsuke’s hips, pulls it close against him. Shinsuke.
A hand through silver and black strands, a strong thigh slotted between his legs.
Shinsuke feels as hard as he does. “Tell me what you want,” he breathes.
“Anything,” Atsumu almost begs. He wants everything between them off, to touch skin instead of fabric. “Anything. Just keep touching me. Please.”
Minutes earlier they were basking in each other’s embrace. In the warmth of Shinsuke’s body and the arousal clouding his head, Atsumu fails to remember how the earlier moment escalated up to this moment, with Atsumu panting into Shinsuke’s mouth and his cock pulsating against Shinsuke’s hand.
Vaguely, he recalls that they’re in a restroom of some fancy karaoke bar, his teammates all clustered somewhere out, but the finer details are a blur. He finds that he doesn’t care, either way. Right now, all his attention is trained on the man in front of him.
Shinsuke doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment as Atsumu. His gaze is directed past him, at the door behind them. Maybe beyond it. It could be as deserted as earlier when Atsumu went in and Shinsuke followed. Or maybe, Atsumu knows his boyfriend will think, maybe there’s a line waiting outside. Really, maybe any of his teammates could be looking for them right now.
“Nobody will come,” Atsumu says, reading the look on Shinsuke’s eyes.
He rests his forehead against Shinsuke’s. Fuck, he’s so hard he can’t think straight. Can’t even worry about the others when he’s focusing all his efforts into grinding his dick slow and hard against Shinsuke’s thigh.
“All of them are trashed and, hah, Meian’s likely lookin’ after them—ah—right now.”
Shinsuke flashes him a meaningful look, eyes flicking to where Atsumu is rubbing himself against him. God, it’s almost embarrassing, but ah—
“We’ll make it quick, then.”
—who cares, really.
“Okay. Hnn—yes.” Atsumu’s hand slides down from Shinsuke’s hip to palm him through his pants. Through his lashes, he watches the droop of Shinsuke’s eyelids and the part of his mouth, lips red and shiny. The slight furrow of his brows as his eyes glaze over, the way his fingers slacken around Atsumu at the stimulation.
“Just stay here with me.”
Seriously, who cares about shame right now.
Shinsuke’s breath hitches. “Your teammates won’t come knocking?”
“They won’t,” Atsumu placates in a low tone, running his fingers through Shinsuke’s hair. “I promise—it’s just us here now. Please, Shinsuke. Please.”
Once, during a drinking game with Shouyou, Bokuto, and Sakusa, the conversation somehow made its way to the topic of their sex lives. As much as Atsumu tried to keep his silence, Shouyou—the irritating way he gets persistent about things sometimes—managed to extract that Atsumu turns malleable between Shinsuke’s hands, that there’s this thing between them regarding control, that Shinsuke likes to take charge in some situations.
That Atsumu allows him. That he parts like sand under Shinsuke’s touch, loose-limbed and incoherent, waits all good and as patient as he can get until Shinsuke gives him his reward.
Atsumu likes it when Shinsuke takes control. Loves the way he’s simultaneously all sharp and gentle, how he makes Atsumu flush when he’s effusive with his praises, how he makes Atsumu harden further when his words border on humiliation. But Shinsuke being in control also means that Atsumu becomes subjected to his whims.
It’s a thing that Shinsuke does, sometimes: be mean to him, leave him wanting and waiting for more. He stops in the middle of a blowjob whenever Atsumu’s close to coming, teases Atsumu with his fingers until the pleasure builds once again and Atsumu’s begging him—he doesn’t say it, but Shinsuke likes that. Being begged with. Hearing pleas fall like prayers from Atsumu’s lips.
Atsumu finds delight in breaking Shinsuke’s resolve when he does.
“I’ll be so good, Shin,” he whispers. “So good for you.”
Shinsuke’s eyes slip closed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Atsumu feels satisfaction curl deep in his gut to see Shinsuke visibly lose the fight with himself. Give in to desire.
This thing that they have with control, the ease with which they relinquish and seize it back, means that as much as Shinsuke can have this power over him, Atsumu can, too. And Shinsuke always had a tender spot in his heart reserved for Atsumu. He’s not gonna lie and say that he doesn’t take advantage of that weakness, sometimes.
So the sight of Shinsuke coming back to himself, eyes dark and intense and focused solely towards Atsumu, makes his blood sing.
With a terse exhale and another glance at the door, Shinsuke grabs the back of Atsumu’s neck, drawing him close until their breaths intermingle. His eyes bore into Atsumu, almost black from how dilated his pupils have become.
Atsumu groans when Shinsuke shoves his thigh against his dick, slow and deliberate.
“Such a needy one, aren’tcha?” he says, tone deceptively mild.
Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat when Shinsuke yanks at his belt hoops and pushes him towards the sink counter.
Fuck. For Shinsuke to manhandle him around like he’s putty, as if he’s not a towering mass of muscle himself—the reminder of Shinsuke’s own strength sends Atsumu reeling. He also notes, with an almost delirious laugh, the tinge of impatience betraying Shinsuke’s composed exterior, at the insistent way Shinsuke tugs at Atsumu’s jeans.
A too-smug smile curves at his mouth when Shinsuke says, “Off.”
In what seems like seconds Atsumu’s pants and boxers are halfway down his thighs. Eager, too eager. Atsumu doesn’t care. His cock leaps free from its confines, hanging heavy between his legs, stiff and flushed red. Precome trickles down from the slit; Atsumu chokes as rough fingers immediately encircle his shaft, the head of his dick leaking as Shinsuke’s thumb smear precome around the glans, spreading, spreading—
Electricity zips through his spine as Shinsuke starts to stroke him fast once, twice. The precome made for a smoother glide; Atsumu’s hips hitch upwards even as the calluses on Shinsuke’s hands rub against the skin, too engulfed in the feeling of Shinsuke finally touching him to care about the friction. His body is beginning to twitch all over, arousal climbing with every stroke.
Shit.
“Fuck—fff—hah, Shinsuke, that feels—”
Atsumu’s head falls backwards, arms shooting out from behind to prop himself up on his palms. He resolutely ignores the sharp pain that spikes from his injured hand. A few more brisk motions of Shinsuke’s hand spark another thrill of pleasure, firing up from the base of his spine, towards his scalp where it tingles, and down to his extremities. Shinsuke’s all rough and warm—Atsumu wants—needs more.
“Atsumu.” Shinsuke bends over him, mouthing on his neck. His other hand’s started to inch his way beneath Atsumu’s shirt, tracing the contours of his abdomen as the motions of his hands continued its pace. “Hand me the lube.”
“In the—” Atsumu curses, head sagging forward when he remembers. “In my wallet. I left it—hnn—at the table.”
“Tsk.”
Atsumu shouldn’t have found the sight of Shinsuke looking discontented so brain-meltingly attractive, but he does. It’s a subtle shift from his usual brand of impassivity, the almost imperceptible manner with which his eyes narrow before it smooths out once more. It sends a pulse of unbridled desire inside Atsumu, and the sheer magnitude of it surges towards the direction of his dick.
A squeeze of Shinsuke’s hand elicits a surprised noise out of him that breaks off into a moan; it only makes it all the more hotter, this display of displeasure. Atsumu’s close to losing his mind.
He watches in a trance as Shinsuke leans back, fingers rucking his shirt up his sides with efficiency and putting his torso in view of an assessing gaze. Up, up. The shirt he’s wearing—a black MSBY merch—is hiked up to his collar now, revealing the smooth underside of his pecs, a flash of nipples.
Atsumu’s eyes widen at the implication as Shinsuke brings the bunched fabric up to his lips.
Fuck.
He’s really going crazy. Kita Shinsuke will be the death of him.
A broken “Shin” is the only thing Atsumu manages to utter before Shinsuke pushes the makeshift gag into his mouth.
Like this, with his jeans down and his shirt held up by his teeth, Atsumu is exposed. Like this, he can see Shinsuke drink in the sight before him, eyes hooded and lips glistening as it parts, silver-black strands mussed up from when Atsumu ran his fingers through it. The position he’s in makes his cock throb: the knowledge that he’s laid out almost bare for Shinsuke’s scrutiny, skin on display for hungry eyes to pick him apart, pale amber-turned-gold greedily mapping every line, every dip, every contour of his body—it turns him on. Makes his bones ache with desire.
Kita Shinsuke is not infallible, after all. In the end, after everything, he is just a man.
Leaning in close, Shinsuke places a light kiss on Atsumu’s temple. “You look beautiful like this,” he breathes out, giving his dick a tight pump.
Atsumu shudders against his hold, whimpering. His fingers curl at the edge of the counter, clutching tightly as to keep himself from immediately coming. Please. Please.
“I’m going to have my mouth full here,” Shinsuke mutters, one hand gripping Atsumu’s hips as he sinks to his knees, “but do your best to keep quiet this time, will ya?”
Shinsuke swallows him into his mouth.
No frills, no ceremony. Only the wet heat enveloping his cock, making Atsumu’s eyes roll back into his head, another jolt of kinesis through his veins.
The firm hold on his hips prevented Atsumu from fucking straight into Shinsuke’s mouth; he stays there, trembling, as Shinsuke pushes the ring of his lips deeper, the tongue underneath easing the drag.
“Hnng—”
Shinsuke, Shinsuke.
A sob threatens to rise up Atsumu’s throat at the sensation, but the fabric in his mouth prevents him from making sounds further than stifled whines. Below him, Shinsuke’s hand takes what his mouth couldn’t reach. His fingers wrap around the base of Atsumu’s length, lightly twisting along as his lips drag up the shaft, tight and warm, to suckle at the tip. It feels electrifying, like his body is a whole livewire, Shinsuke’s mouth a conductor for his rapture.
Atsumu stutters a gasp. Sparks dance along the line of his back as Shinsuke’s mouth pops free, precome and saliva trailing after pink lips, to leave kitten licks around the tip of his cock. Atsumu’s head slants backwards, feeling himself blur at the edges. Alight, lineless. The throb of his fingers is all but a dull memory when Shinsuke’s tongue is a blazing clarity in the haze. He feels it down at the base of his length, running along the veins of his shaft. Up, up, where his lips close around the head, tongue dancing, playing—fuck, how is Shinsuke real—
The air in his lungs escapes him and it fills him with something heady. He needs—more. As if reading his mind, Shinsuke sinks down on his cock again, a little deeper this time, pausing a moment to exhale through his nose, and—
A muffled yell rips free from Atsumu’s chest when Shinsuke’s head moves at a brutal pace. The combination of his mouth and his hand leaves Atsumu like his body is all air, threatening to send him over the edge of thrill.
Even dazed, Atsumu forces himself to watch, anyway: Shinsuke, beautiful with his eyes shut and brows furrowed in concentration, lashes fanning over cheeks flushed at full force. Head of silver-black bouncing up and down his length. His cock disappearing under Shinsuke’s lips, sheathing his mouth to the brim, cheeks hollowed out around the girth of his dick.
The sound of slick and Shinsuke’s grunts fill the whole room. Atsumu’s breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling in a tremendous effort to hold himself back. Below him, engrossed in the act, Shinsuke takes one of Atsumu’s hands and sets it atop his hair. His breath hitches. Atsumu fists his fingers through the strands, grip tightening. Throbs at the low moan Shinsuke lets out, how he bobs his head faster, faster.
“Shin.”
The shirt falls from his mouth as he whines. Free from the restraint, Atsumu lets out a low groan, bending over Shinsuke, whose hands are splayed over Atsumu’s hips, mouth a wet, dizzying heat around him, all tight and quick movement. Up, down in a continuous rhythm. Fuck. The pressure at the pit of his stomach is building, swelling as the pleasure starts to crest and lick at his insides, unfurling to the very ends of his fingertips.
He feels all lit inside. He’s—
“—close, baby, m’close, please, please, please—”
Atsumu moves to pull Shinsuke off, but his head resolutely remains where it is, sliding deeper than even possible. Atsumu feels his cockhead hit the back of Shinsuke’s throat, and from there Shinsuke tilts his face at an angle, golden brown eyes arresting him in his spot.
Look at me.
Shinsuke hums, swallows. Atsumu’s vision goes white and he spills down Shinsuke’s throat with a cry.
There was not, in fact, a line of disgruntled individuals waiting outside the bathroom door.
By a stroke of pure luck—or by the mercy of the gods, as Shinsuke would say in that cheeky way he gets once in a while—the hallway is deserted, lined with warm ambient lights that dotted the ceiling of the restroom. The hubbub from the private rooms filters through the walls; a stray, booming voice towers over the rest, no doubt belonging to—
“Bokkun,” Atsumu explains to Shinsuke, who turned like a startled cat at the sound. “It’s probably his turn to hog the mic now.”
“I always forget that he’s got some strong pipes,” Shinsuke remarks, shoulders relaxing as he resumes fixing his shirt.
The flush on his cheeks still hasn’t gone down, his lips bitten almost raw. When he looks back up at Atsumu, his eyes are gleaming. “You should sing, too, Atsumu. Put that mouth of yours to good use.”
Atsumu scrunches his face at the suggestion—he can do everything but be a singer, thanks—before a lazy grin crawls onto his face.
“I know of a better way to make use of my mouth, if you wanna hear,” he offers, pulling his boyfriend in by the shoulders. He then leans into Shinsuke with an obnoxious hum, mouth puckered into an exaggerated kissing gesture, laughing when Shinsuke leans back and his own face gets shoved away.
“You’re breakin’ my heart, Shinsuke!” he cries out, fighting a grin.
“And you’re enjoyin’ yourself too much,” Shinsuke says, voice bland. The collar of his button-down slips, revealing a mottling of fresh hickeys that climb out from beneath the silk and stop just above his collarbone. “Looking awful smug ‘cause you got what you wanted now, hm, mauling me like a dog earlier.”
The sunny, self-satisfied smile that was already etched on Atsumu’s features blooms even more at the statement, one that he refuses to tamp down.
“Ah, well,” Atsumu says airily, his hold around Shinsuke tightening.
Briefly, the memories from earlier flash in his mind, a fast affair: Shinsuke on his knees, head tilting to catch a stray cum with his tongue, eyes hooded and Atsumu’s seed pooling in his mouth; Shinsuke propped up on the counter, muscled thighs spread, shaking from the quick, smooth motions of Atsumu’s uninjured hand on his cock; Shinsuke’s aborted moans, his quivering arm around Atsumu’s shoulders as Atsumu leaves trails of red and purple down his torso before he comes.
Beautiful, beautiful, all so beautiful.
“Can you really blame me, Shin? I was hungry.” Atsumu reaches up to fix the collar of Shinsuke’s shirt, hiding most of the hickey from plain sight. When he looks back at his boyfriend with a casual smirk, he’s met head-on with an unimpressed stare.
Atsumu immediately breaks facade, sputtering.
“Wh—It’s not only me who wanted this, you know!” he protests, face aflame. How many times will he lose his cool in front of his boyfriend like this? Atsumu can’t keep track at this point. “Who was the one that came onto me first, huh? Who started all this? And you were the one who said my mind was in the gutter.”
Shinsuke wisely decides not to answer. Without a word, he settles back against Atsumu’s side, eyes resolutely fixed ahead as he and Atsumu walk back to the private rooms.
Though his expression doesn’t deviate from its usual impassive state, the twin pink splotches on his cheeks deepen, spreading to his nose and tinting the tips of his ears. His other hand, the one that isn’t wrapped around Atsumu’s waist, stretches out to stroke the hand dangling by his chest, fiddling with the fingers bound with sports tape.
Atsumu melts and feels his heart seize once more, his earlier embarrassment forgotten. Can’t really stay mad at a face like that, can he now?
“Say, Shin.”
“Mm.”
“About earlier,” he says. Pauses. “That was your way of comforting me, right? All that uh, stuff.”
Shinsuke slants him a sidelong stare. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now.”
“Oh.” Atsumu blinks. “So... you’re saying that you really wanted to do it, then?”
The silence that follows causes Atsumu to cackle in surprise. Delighted, he nuzzles a noisy kiss into Shinsuke’s hair, who’s mumbling under his breath, face flushed and his mouth pulled into a pleased smile.