For a Bad Time, Call Miya Atsumu - cerasi, disco*konomi, pygmymeese, rinpanna, winterwaltz6 (2024)

Chapter 1: Kita Shinsuke

Chapter Text

No one comes to the School of Tokyo Institute for the academics.

“That’s not true,” Bokuto shouts right into Atsumu’s ear. “Akaashi came here for the journalism program. Said it’s the best in the country!” They’re squeezed next to each other on a disgustingly lumpy couch, but Tsukishima is blasting music through speakers that are entirely too powerful for a sh*tty campus apartment with thin walls. His ear drums are ringing—hell, his f*cking bones are rattling from the bass.

“I thought Akaashi was studyin’ psych.”

Bokuto pulls back, confused. “He is. So?”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, bored of the conversation and way too sober. The kitchen is on the other side of the apartment, past the throngs of new freshmen losing their inhibitions. They’re all crammed into the living room despite the ample space this early in the evening, grinding awkwardly against each other as if their first ever university party will be their only chance to be slu*ts.

It won’t be. Atsumu’s own freshman year is proof of that. Between the volleyball team, Greek life as an Omega Omega Omega brother, and classmates who were equally more focused on having a life than homework, Atsumu’d had a hell of a year.

Sophom*ore year, he hopes, will be more of the same.

He nods a bye to Bokuto and pushes himself off the sinkhole masquerading as a couch. As he skirts the crowd, hands slide across his shoulders, tug at his sleeve, trying to convince him to stay and dance. No one in the crowd is hot enough for him, though.

Only a handful of people are in the kitchen. A couple is making out against the fridge, while a few loners sit hunched over at the small table, sad little faces backlit by their phones. Atsumu shoves the couple to the side. They don’t so much as blink at their new location against the door leading to the back stairwell, using the opportunity to start sliding their hands under their clothes.

Luckily for him, they’ve blocked anyone from accessing the Jell-O shots until now. He grabs three and slurps two down. The third shot he’ll either give Bokuto or Aran, depending on who will be easier to convince to give him a sloppy handjob in the next 30 minutes.

The back door opens up—or tries to. At first, it manages a single crack before the girl making out with the other pulls an honest to god kabedon to slam it back shut.

Whoever’s on the other side says something too quiet for Atsumu to hear, but the couple scrambles back.

The door creaks open, just enough for someone to slip through.

It’s Kita.

He clears his throat, a delicate little thing that echoes despite the music, and it sends everyone in the kitchen onto their feet with their backs straight up.

“Nice of y’all to stop by tonight,” Kita says, nodding his head at everyone. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves?”

The others trip over themselves to say something like, Yes, sir, thanks for having us, it’s so nice to see you, you’ve decorated the place so nice, you look great, please step on me.

Atsumu is frozen in place, blood rushing to his cheeks as Kita notices him in the background.

“Oh, Atsumu. Didn’t expect to see ya here already. Didja come by early to help Aran?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu squeaks out. He can’t say anything more, even if his tongue wanted to cooperate.

Kita smiles. “Good boy.”

The blood rushes from his cheeks to his dick.

“Have a good night, y’all,” Kita says, gliding out of the room. “Please stay safe.”

The room breathes a sigh of horny relief. Everyone picks up where they left off.

Expect Atsumu. He slides back the third shot himself, then follows.

A sheepish, half-naked trio emerges from Kita’s room when he gets to the door. They take a bit too long to pull themselves together as he waits for them to scram, jitters overtaking his body. When they finally leave and he can slip inside, he finds Kita stripping his sheets off the bed.

Without looking up, Kita asks, “Didja leave somethin’ behind?”

“Can’t leave something behind when ya haven’t invited me over, Kita.”

Kita’s hands still on the pillow, swinging around to level Atsumu an amused stare. “I didn’t know you were anglin’ for an invitation. Ya know yer always welcome at the apartment, Atsumu. Aran takes bein’ yer big seriously.”

“I don’t give a f*ck about hanging out at The Foxhole,” Atsumu says, unsurprised Kita doesn’t refer to the apartment by the dubious name the other roommates had dubbed it.

“Language.”

“I’ve heard ya say worse, Kita. Remember?” He keeps his voice soft and disarming, hoping to coax Kita out from behind that damned wall that made people think he was a square. Atsumu had managed it once before, and he’s eager for the chance to crack Kita wide open again.

Kita’s cheeks pick up a hint of red. A step closer to victory, Atsumu thinks.

Few things have approximated the high of Kita Shinsuke—model junior, president of the student government, and clueless heartbreaker—panting after him. Having all that pristine reputation in bed was a power trip and a half amid all the forgettable flings of freshman year. No one believed Atsumu when he tried to brag about it after the fact, and in the rare moments that Atsumu temporarily lays his ego to rest, even he isn’t sure how he landed Kita that night.

No better time than the present to see if he can climb Everest again.

“I’m not one to forget much,” Kita finally says. He keeps his eyes focused on his hands, shucking a pillowcase off, folding it neatly, then tossing it into a laundry hamper like a weirdo.

Atsumu steps up behind Kita, close enough to know that Kita can sense him there without looking, but not so near that Atsumu’s rubbing his fledgling erection against Kita’s ass like a dog in heat—yet.

Instead, Atsumu slides his hands under Kita’s sweatshirt and over the dip of his waist. His skin runs hot, smooth and begging for bruises. Kita’s breath hitches, even though he doesn’t move a damn inch any other way. At this rate, Atsumu will have to set himself on f*cking fire if just to get Kita to dump water over him.

“Kita, what I wanna know is if I’m welcome here.” Atsumu presses his face into Kita’s neck, running his nose up and down the length of it.

“Ain’t nothing to see. Just a plain bed and a sturdy desk.” Kita’s voice is entirely too steady, at odds with the way he is gripping the pillow tight enough to rip it in half.

“I’m interested in both of those things.”

“I can send ya the links to their product listings.”

“They’re right here, though. It’ll be more efficient to test ’em together right now.” Atsumu nips at Kita’s pulse. His heartbeat races under Atsumu’s lips. Still, Kita does not waver.

“I’ve owned both for years. I know they’re perfectly functional.”

“I use different stress tests for my furniture.”

“Then you can swing by ta use the desk some night you need ta study.”

“I’d rather study you.”

“That ain’t what yer classes are for.”

Atsumu’s erection and willpower are actively deflating. “No one came ta STI to actually study.”

“That’s disrespectful to the students who fought hard ta earn a spot here.”

“Fine. Forget the desk and the studying. I know the room’s new to ya. Let’s christen it together.”

“I’m Shinto.”

He rests his forehead on Kita’s shoulder in defeat. “Kita,” Atsumu says. “Can we just f*ck already?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Atsumu knows he’s made a mistake.

Kita turns to face him, and Atsumu scrambles back. He startles as he bumps into the desk. His heart is hammering in his throat, a white-knuckled grip on the desk to keep himself from falling to his knees in apology. If he’s going to bend his pride tonight, it won’t be without a hell of a fight first.

“By now, I’d’ve thought someone woulda taught you manners.” Kita moves unhurried, crossing the small space between them. Instinctively, Atsumu sits back on the desk and spreads his legs as Kita settles in the V between.

Atsumu laughs, too high pitched to pass off as nonchalant. “People’ve tried, but I’m a stubborn son a bitch.”

Kita’s palm is hot through his jeans. Against all reason, Atsumu swears it gets hotter as it drags up his thigh, squeezing ever so lightly as he rounds Atsumu’s ass, before slipping under his shirt. “I think ya just respond best to alternative motivation.”

Kita glances up at him through his eyelashes. The look isn’t coy or seductive, nothing like what Atsumu is used to seeing from countless other sycophants and fellow slu*ts. Instead, Kita’s gaze is piercing, obscene in how it flays Atsumu down to nothing but his basest needs.

Atsumu doesn’t wait a second longer.

Kissing Kita is like swimming at high tide, helplessly tossed around by the rhythm of the moon. A darker undercurrent lurks beneath the surface, ready to drown him at the slightest sign of weakness. He keeps afloat, somehow. Matches each push and pull breathlessly, exhilarated beyond belief.

Presumably, the world continues on outside of the point that their mouths connect, but Atsumu doesn’t care about anything except the layers between his erection and Kita’s. Mindlessly, he ruts against him, as if he can rub his way through all the fabric if he tries hard enough.

At some point, Kita solves the issue for them. Atsumu doesn’t know when or how Kita slides off their pants, too focused on Kita’s touch as it flits lightly across his ribs and how the edge of the desk bites into his thighs, mirroring the way Kita bites at his lip.

As soon as he can feel Kita’s co*ck against his, Atsumu hooks his ankles at the small of Kita’s back. He presses his body as close as it can get to Kita’s without outright falling.

The balancing act is pointless; Kita slides his hands under Atsumu’s ass, and, with a little bit of maneuvering, lifts him up effortlessly. Atsumu really needs to hook up more with people who can manhandle him, because holy sh*t.

His enthusiasm sends Kita stumbling, unprepared for the extra force behind Atsumu’s kiss. Kita redirects them to collapse onto the bed, bouncing lightly under their combined weight as Atsumu lands on his back.

Before Atsumu can finally get his hands on Kita’s dick, Kita stands up.

“You asshole,” Atsumu protests. “Get back here!”

Kita’s lips are so, so red. Atsumu did that. He did that. He’s so enraptured by this smug spiral that it takes a few seconds for Atsumu’s brain to boot up enough to parse out language that isn’t dirty talk. He does claw his way to cognition eventually, in time for Kita to repeat, “There aren’t any sheets on the bed.”

“So? I sleep without sheets all the time and I’m doin’ great.”

Maybe Atsumu shouldn’t have said that. Kita looks like he’s reconsidering now.

“Seriously?” Atsumu says in disbelief. “Is that enough to make you want to stop?”

Kita frowns. “Do ya have a bed frame, at least?”

“No one buys furniture for a frat house. You inherit what ya get and are damn grateful fer every scrap of it.”

“If ya sleep on yer mattress without sheets, ya risking getting it awful dirty with no way ta clean it well.”

Atsumu stares, questioning his taste in partners. Unfortunately for him, his taste starts and stops at interested. His dick is not going to give up sex with Kita, even if he doesn’t actually remember what his bed frame looks like. At least he knows not to admit that right now.

“Okay, no bed,” Atsumu says. “I’ve had floor sex and desk sex plenty. Where do ya want me?”

“Atsumu,” Kita says, exasperated yet again.

Maybe Atsumu’s deluding himself, but he thinks he hears a hint of fondness, warming him right back up. He makes an executive decision. Kita seemed fine with making out on the desk, and where there’s a desk…

Atsumu hoists himself up off the bed, pauses, then makes a beeline to shamelessly rummage through Kita’s nightstand. As expected, he finds a bottle of lube and tosses it to Kita.

Before Kita can blink, Atsumu grabs his shirt by the collar and walks him back into his office chair. It careens back into the wall, Kita skewed in the seat, and Atsumu half-kneeling, half-standing over him.

“I don’t know if the chair can handle the weight of two grown—”

“Sometimes,” Atsumu interrupts, pulling his own shirt off and tossing it to the side, “it’s important ta know how to be flexible. Ya had a problem, I gave ya a solution. Easy as that.”

Kita blinks, eyes glassy. It’s unclear if he’s dazed at Atsumu’s flawless logic or flawless abs. Presumably both.

Still, Atsumu is a thoughtful person. He can throw Kita a bone. Plus, Kita will be more annoying if he’s worried about the chair collapsing under his ass.

Atsumu falls to his knees, finally back in the saddle and triumphant at Kita’s silence. With a bit of nudging, he gets Kita’s briefs off, and sucks his dick down to the base without any hesitation.

Kita yells a garbled curse, hips jolting up involuntarily to slam it that little bit further to make Atsumu’s eyes water.

“f*ck, sorry, Atsumu.”

Atsumu pops off, taking care to audibly slurp and force Kita to hear how lewd Atsumu can get. “Language, Kita-san,” he says cheekily, wiping precome off his chin.

Kita snaps. He grabs Atsumu’s hair and yanks him forward, slamming his dick into Atsumu’s open mouth. Again and again he thrusts up and holds Atsumu’s head down, a man utterly lost.

“I should feel bad fer usin’ ya like this.”

Atsumu isn’t sure Kita meant to say that out loud, breathless and soft as his fingers twist tighter into Atsumu’s nape.

Atsumu can’t let it lie. For months, he’s dreamed about Kita using him like a damn toy. So he chases after Kita’s dick as Kita tries to pull back, goes down as far as his throat will let him, nose burrowed in wiry hair as he chooses to choke.

Kita curses and jerks his hips up again. Atsumu swallows around the co*ck stretching his mouth so wide, a groan slipping out. Drool slides from the corners of his lips and onto the chair. The fabric soaks it up greedily until it’s saturated and falls onto his knees.

Atsumu is so glad that he lost his gag reflex.

Once Atsumu starts feeling light-headed—tipping past the line of hot toward dangerously deprived of oxygen—he sits back. Kita groans, grabbing his dick and spreading Atsumu’s spit over it. The sight makes Atsumu want to dive back in immediately, but he learned early on in his sex life that fainting on your partner’s dick (normally) ruined the mood.

Kita hauls Atsumu up and positions him onto his lap, back to chest. One hand covers Atsumu’s jaw, forcing his neck around for a messy kiss that only makes him sloppier for the way their lips don’t meet perfectly.

With the other hand, Kita squeezes lube all across Atsumu’s groin, letting the bottle fall to the ground once they’re drenched. He twists his slick fist around Atsumu’s co*ck—not for the sake of pleasure, but a clinical goal of coating the head and shaft, down to his balls.

Atsumu splays his legs wide as Kita smears it across his thighs, the squelch driving him harder and closer to ecstacy.

Kita lines up his dick. He guides Atsumu’s knee with a light touch. “Close for me, Atsumu.”

His thighs trap Kita’s co*ck between them, rubbing the underside of his own leaking dick. Atsumu rolls his head back over Kita’s shoulder, braces himself against the armrests, and moves.

The mix of lube and friction is almost painful. Atsumu’s co*ck has mostly been neglected up until now, and everything burns from oversensitivity, too hot yet still not enough. Wordless whines slip out, loud and helpless as he bounces.

The back of the chair—and his own f*ckin’ head—scrapes against the wall, every slam straining the plastic and fabric. If the thing breaks now, Atsumu will take it as a damned compliment.

“Is this what you wanted when you came here tonight?” Kita says, voice ragged. He’s craning his neck to see where his dick is nestled next to Atsumu’s, how his own hand is pressing them tight to Atsumu’s stomach while his thighs slide around them.

Atsumu can't say anything but Kita’s name, over and over again. It’s not long before Kita’s nails dig into his collar and he releases, shooting up Atsumu’s chest, covering their co*cks with come. Atsumu feels the hot stripes paint his skin and follows after in a high moment that feels like an eternity.

They sit just like this for a while, letting breath return to their bodies, the world coming back to them in pieces.

Kita rolls the chair towards the desk, snagging a pack of wet wipes from a drawer. With soft, careful swipes, he cleans Atsumu off, murmuring hushed comfort whenever he shivers from oversensitivity. After a bit of maneuvering, Kita slips out from beneath Atsumu. He pulls out a blanket from beneath the bed and tosses it over him.

Atsumu barely notices as Kita dresses and dips out of the room. But when he comes back to press a glass of water into his hand, Atsumu realizes that Kita’s face is twisted too unpleasantly for someone who just had a shatteringly fantastic org*sm.

“What happened?” he croaks out. The water only helps his burning throat so much.

Kita perches on the edge of his bed. “Apparently the speakers Tsukishima brought malfunctioned.”

“Not yer speakers, not yer problem.” Music is blasting from the living room right now, so clearly someone fixed something. He doesn’t get why he has to care about this.

“That ain’t it.” Kita wrings his hands, hunched forward and closed off in a way that hurts more than Atsumu expected. He doesn’t need to feel close to someone to sleep with them, but he has a sense of pride about leaving people feeling better than they did before.

Plus, Kita’s his big’s best friend and a campus icon to boot. They have a friendship outside of sex—if friends is the right word for how Atsumu feels like he’s constantly trying to meet Kita’s effortlessly high level.

“Just spit it out. Not like ya to hold back.”

“The speakers blew out when—ya weren’t exactly quiet when we were…”

“f*cking,” Atsumu provides when Kita’s voice falters. “When your dick was touching mine. Or maybe fornicating or making love is more your speed.”

“Atsumu,” Kita chides, but hearing his name from Kita’s mouth just pisses him off now.

“So they heard me! Big whoop. Ain’t a secret I like sex.” Atsumu lets the blanket fall as he stands, hunting for his clothes. If everyone heard him f*ck, might as well let them hear him fight with Kita, too. “Guess it’s a problem fer you, since ya never bothered correctin’ everyone who called me a liar after we slept together last year.”

“I’m sorry about that, Atsumu. Ain’t an excuse, but I didn’t know that was happenin’ until someone from The jacko*ff asked me about it a few days ago. I didn’t want…” he trails off, struggling to avoid naming his own horniness when it doesn’t quite sit with his current shade of repression. “Didn’t want this ta put ya in a worse place with that list goin’ around.”

The blood freezes in Atsumu’s veins. “What list?”

Kita balks, eyebrows flying up. “None of yer brothers told ya?”

“What list, Kita?”

“Someone brought a picture to my attention, ranking how good the bigger frat houses are at sex. Made individual lists for each frat, too.”

Considering Kita’s reticence, Atsumu doesn’t have high hopes for his placement, even though he’s f*cking great at—well, f*cking. “So I’m not the best on the list. Haters gonna hate. What am I, third?” Kita shakes his head. “Fifth? Tenth? Twentieth?”

Still, Kita keeps shaking his head. “Yer last.”

Bullsh*t. Atsumu knows the opinions of strangers don’t matter, but this feels like a personal attack. “As in, I’m the worst f*ck of Omega 3.”

Kita winces, but finally nods.

“So everyone out there not only heard me f*cking, but think I was hollering like a damn loon over sh*tty sex?”

“If it helps, I had a nice time tonight. Last time, as well.”

Atsumu claps his hands with all the slow insincerity he can muster. “Oh, so glad it was nice, Kita! While yer at it, send me a damn thank you card so I can show f*ckin’ proof to whatever asshole wrote that list up.”

“If ya want to spend the night here, yer welcome ta,” Kita offers quietly.

“No disrespect, Kita, but take yer pity and shove it up yer ass. Might as well go out there and give ‘em something more ta talk about.”

Kita opens his mouth a few times before he settles on letting Atsumu loose. “Good luck, Atsumu.”

“Don’t need it,” Atsumu replies, opening the door and ready to cut a bitch or two down. “I’ve got skill.”

It’s on.

Chapter 2: Tanaka Saeko

Chapter Text

Atsumu has theories. Several of them, actually. The inside of his mind is like that one f*cking meme with all the red strings pinned between papers on the wall and the guy who looks like a lunatic.

Mostly what he's concluded, in 99% of scenarios, is that someone is f*cking with him.

Sure, he’s slept around and yeah, he’s occasionally been drunk and selfish and there was that one time he’d creamed his pants—but he’d made up for it afterward.

Because Atsumu knows, for a fact, that he’s not the worst lay of his frat house. For f*ck’s sake, Kageyama is right there. He probably just flops around like a dead fish during sex. Hell, he’s probably still a virgin.

He says as much to Sakusa when they’re stuck on kitchen cleaning duty together.

“He’s been here for three weeks, nobody even knows who he is,” Sakusa comments blandly, while scrubbing down the sink for an unnecessary second time. “If you’re at the bottom of the list, it’s probably because you have every STD known to man at this point. No one wants to sleep with you on principle.”

“Hey, no slu*t shaming, we’ve talked about this. I’m just enjoying my youth. And I’m clean, promise.”

Sakusa shrugs. He’s in kitchen gloves up to his elbows and has a cute bandana wrapped around his head. He’s also number three on the list of best lays in their frat house, probably because of the rumors about him sleeping with a group of extremely attractive girls from his classic lit class. Between his tall frame and dark, disarming eyes, Atsumu could understand the appeal.

The entire thing is hilariously absurd, though. Sakusa once left the room during a party when a girl had flashed them. Whoever started that rumor has a broken-ass gaydar.

“That list is bullsh*t,” Atsumu says, for at least the seventeenth time in the last few days.

“Obviously,” Sakusa agrees. “I don’t understand why you care. It’s just clickbait.”

“That’s easy for you to say since you’re number three.”

“Yes, and I’ve had sex once since I enrolled here. That’s my point.”

Atsumu would absolutely commit murder to learn who that one person is. He’s tried to hook up with Sakusa no less than three times himself.

Unfortunately, Sakusa has standards—which apparently include wanting something more thought out than Atsumu’s drunken offer to make out at a party, one sleazy invitation into Atsumu’s shower post-practice, and a slightly more serious request on a lonely night when he’d asked if he could suck Sakusa’s dick.

Atsumu scrubs harder at his assigned section of the countertop. He’s always the laziest when it comes to cleaning duty, which is why he’s always paired with Sakusa. There is no slacking around him when it comes to this.

“Well, I ain’t gonna rest until I get a re-print. Or figure out who said I’m a sh*tty lay. Or both.”

“Nobody reads corrections. Especially not for a publication called The jacko*ff.”

“Then I guess I just gotta go out there and prove the haters wrong, y’know? I can’t go through the next three years with this kinda reputation.”

“Or you could just focus on making sure you don’t lose your sports scholarship. Or not giving yourself alcohol poisoning. Or herpes.”

“Or,” Atsumu emphasizes, ignoring Sakusa’s stick in the mud suggestions, “I could have a good time and not waste my college years doing nothing but studyin’.”

Sakusa grunts in response, clearly not convinced of Atsumu’s plan. He finally starts to rinse down the sink. Atsumu tosses his sponge from his distance across the kitchen and watches with delight as it lands in the sink, splashing water all over Sakusa.

“Three-pointer!” Atsumu shouts. “The crowd goes wild!”

“Miya,” Sakusa growls, turning to face him with murder in his eyes. He might actually strangle Atsumu—he’s already got gloves on. “You’re a miserable excuse for a human being.”

Atsumu smirks at him. “Yeah, but I’m a great f*cking lay. You wanna hook up later and see for yourself? I got the whole afternoon open.” He gestures to the sparkling countertop behind him. “Got a really nice clean surface right here for ya.”

Sakusa throws the sponge back in his face with force. The spin on his wrist applies to more than volleyballs.

Yeah, Atsumu deserved that one.

Back to the red strings.

Bokuto tells Atsumu to talk to Akaashi. He doesn’t write for the smut rag tabloid that printed the list but he does work for the official school paper. Which means that Akaashi knows a lot of journalism students and can probably at least give Atsumu some clues about who to interrogate next.

Akaashi’s supposedly covering a music event at a local bar for a story about the band playing that evening. The Murder of Crows, apparently a group of STI alumni, had already amassed a decent following in only a few months and the story would be a nice way to showcase the college’s music program.

The second he walks into the dive bar and sees who’s playing the drums, he forgets his intent to search out Akaashi.

After all, his chances for getting laid tonight have just shot through the roof.

Murder of Crows has three members—he doesn’t recognize two of them but the drummer is someone he’s intimately familiar with.

It’s been months since he’s seen Saeko. The last time was during the holidays at a party celebrating the end of finals week. It had definitely been a memorable night.

He orders a beer and enjoys the show, dancing with a few random people in the crowd. Saeko’s band is really good—grungy and a tad moody but not so downcast that the songs don’t have an upbeat thrumming bass to them.

Atsumu is pleasantly tipsy by the time the show ends. The band disperses into the crowd for raucous cheers, free drinks and pictures with fans.

Atsumu isn’t a patient guy by default but he is strategic. He keeps an eye on Saeko while she chats with everyone and hugs her friends.

Today she’s wearing black shorts with fishnet stockings, and her shirt looks like a lacy corset with a leather jacket thrown over it. Her lipstick is bright red with eyeliner sharp enough to cut as a perfect compliment. Her black choker is thick and lacy and she has on an absurd number of rings.

In short—she’s f*cking hot.

He waits until there’s a lull in the crowd of people pressing in, and brings a fresh beer with him as an offering. “Hey, Saeko-chan. It’s been a while.”

Saeko looks up at him—a full 33 centimeters up, Atsumu always notes with glee—and smirks. “It sure has, stranger. Where you been?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Nowhere special. Went home for the summer, now I’m just settling back into the new year.” He nods at the stage and her bandmates. “I can see what you’ve been busy with though.”

Saeko takes the proffered beer and downs half of it in one go. Atsumu has always liked her for a reason.

“Well, I’m not busy now,” she flirts, leaning into his space, her breasts very nearly brushing against his chest. “I definitely have some time to talk, if you’re gonna be buying me drinks.”

“For you? Anything.”

Atsumu means it too. He’s had a lot of fun over the last year but few experiences match up to inviting Saeko up to his room for a night after she’d spent the better part of an hour sitting on his lap at some party, whispering dirty jokes into his ear and teasing him to the point of insanity.

She’d stayed the night, actually. In the morning, Atsumu thought maybe they could have another go at things but she’d dragged him back to her own apartment and told him she was going to change his life.

Atsumu had been expecting kinky sex.

Instead, she’d put a plastic cape around his shoulders and told him his hair looked like sh*t. In retrospect, and with his new color after Saeko had helped him out, she’d been right.

He buys her a water bottle and a fancy co*cktail that he immediately forgets the name of. She sits down at the bar, dramatically wiping at the non-existent sweat on her brow. “Shows are always such a workout.”

Atsumu grins at her. “Tired already? The night’s just getting started.”

Saeko laughs, her head tilted back with joy. “God, no. But it’s nice to have a breather for a minute. How’d you end up here for the night though? This isn’t your typical scene.”

Atsumu wilts a little at the reminder of why he’d come here. He waves a dismissive hand at the question. “Just some stupid drama that ain’t worth going into. I was just mindin’ my own business and everything and then people just had to drag me into something.”

“Sure you were,” Saeko chuckles. “If you need me to kick someone’s ass just let me know. It won’t come cheap but I’ll definitely do it.”

Atsumu rests his chin in his hands and figures Saeko isn’t the worst person to talk to about it. She’s honest and he doesn’t see her often enough that he can’t risk some embarrassment with her. “You had a good time when we hooked up before, right?”

Saeko raises an eyebrow and gives Atsumu a critical look. “What’s that have to do with your drama? Now I do want the details.”

Atsumu shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to him. “Some stupid f*cking list ranking how good frat brothers are at sex is making the rounds.”

That makes Saeko laugh again, this time harder than before. “And let me guess,” she says after she wipes away a tear. “You’re at the bottom? Nothing else could explain that kicked puppy look you have going on.”

“Told you it was stupid.”

Saeko laughs again, then pushes Atsumu’s beer towards his hand. “Damn, drink up, Atsumu. You need it. That’s rough.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Atsumu says sarcastically. He taps his fingers on the bar with impatience. “You gonna answer the question or not?”

Saeko rolls her eyes at him. “Unless you forgot what happened, you already know the answer. I’m not gonna sit here and stroke your ego.”

No, Atsumu hasn’t forgotten.

Making Saeko come was the most effortless thing in the world. She was bossy as hell and not at all afraid to tell Atsumu exactly what she wanted. She was vocal and completely unashamed of her body and enjoying sex. It was easy to tell what she liked and didn’t like and adjust accordingly.

He doesn’t remember how many times she’d come while riding his face before she’d let him f*ck her but it had definitely been more than once.

(Just kidding, it was three.)

“Besides,” Saeko continues, “you’ve never been the type to let the sh*t other people say get to you. Just let it go and keep having a good time.”

To some extent, that’s exactly what Sakusa had told him to do. Except most things didn’t attack Atsumu’s pride so directly. It was easy to ignore stupid sh*t, especially when it came to volleyball. His game spoke for itself and it was easy to prove people wrong.

This was harder to let go of.

Still. Whatever asshole out there had decided to print the story wasn’t here sitting around with Tanaka Saeko and buying her drinks. He decides to focus on the present. The red strings can wait.

He takes a drink of his beer just like Saeko encouraged him to do and calls the bartender over.

“A round of tequila shots,” Atsumu orders. “Double for the lady.”

“Hell yeah, that’s the spirit!” Saeko cheers.

They dance after the shots. Their height difference makes it a challenge sometimes but it’s the most fun Atsumu has had in a while.

He should get off campus more often. Sure, he likes being around his frat brothers and his teammates. The sh*t they get up to is idiotic and stupid and while it's always a good time, there’s something really nice about the change of pace.

When she turns around, he notices something new—a tattoo at the base of her neck, mostly covered up by her hair. Atsumu feels like it’s not too presumptuous to sweep her hair aside to look at it more closely—after all, her ass has been bumping into him for an hour now.

“What’s this?” He asks, thumbing over the design. It’s the black outline of a bird, small and delicate.

“Just having some fun,” Saeko replies, not shying away from Atsumu’s touch. He lets his thumb sweep down lower, brushing against the collar of her jacket. “Everyone in the band got one.”

“It’s cute,” Atsumu compliments before he recalls that Saeko is not a fan of the word being applied to her. Whoops.

Saeko just laughs. The high of a show and a few drinks has clearly made her more lenient. She turns back around, tucks a finger into the collar of his shirt, and pulls, forcing him to bend down lower. “If you think that’s cute, I got some other new things to show you.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen with interest. He can’t help it. “Oh yeah? When were you thinking?”

She winks at him. “Could be tonight, if you wanna come back to my place.”

“If I wanna,” Atsumu scoffs. “You kidding me? Ain’t nowhere I’d rather be.”

Saeko smiles at him, a twist to her lips that he’s seen before and knows spells out trouble that he’s sure to enjoy.

“On just one condition, though.”

The one condition, as it turns out, is six and a half inches of dark purple silicone.

“I’m into topping lately,” Saeko explains easily once they’re in her apartment. She’s rummaging through a dresser drawer and pulling out supplies. “I’ve mostly been hooking up with girls.”

Atsumu nods dumbly. That’s a lot of really arousing information all at once. He sits down on the edge of her bed, legs splaying out, and reclines back on his hands. “You can tell me about it, if ya want,” he offers magnanimously.

Saeko chuckles and turns around, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “With a few exceptions, men are getting kinda boring for me. They’re terrible at eating puss* and eighty percent of them act like having a finger in their ass is going to kill them.”

“Good thing you found me then,” Atsumu answers. He nods at her dild*. “That’s a little bigger than a finger, though. If you’re opening with that, it’s no wonder you scared them off.”

Saeko jerks a thumb back at her dresser drawer. “I’ve got bigger ones, if you’re complaining.”

As if Atsumu would complain about jack sh*t when he’s about to have his face buried between Saeko’s legs again. “You aren’t gonna scare me away,” he says. “Trust me.”

“I know.” Saeko brings her supplies over to the nightstand, then tosses her leather jacket over a chair. She bends forward until their eyes meet and draws a soft fingertip down his cheek. “That’s why I like you.”

Atsumu feels a shiver roll down his spine.

“You can try, though,” he teases, leaning forward so that they’re nearly kissing. “Do your worst.”

“You’ll regret that challenge,” Saeko answers, straddling him and pushing him down onto the mattress.

Atsumu doubts that.

As much as Atsumu loves kissing, Saeko really doesn’t have the patience for it. She hadn’t before and nothing has changed. If anything, she’s even more eager to skip ahead, if only because she’s finally ready to show Atsumu her other new things.

“Damn, girl,” Atsumu whistles when she strips her top off and flings her bra off into the background. Her nipples are pierced now and Atsumu’s hands are cupping the underside of her breasts before he knows it. He rubs a thumb over each side and she shivers where she sits on his abs, straddling his lap.

“You like ‘em?”

Atsumu lets out an incredulous laugh. “You have been with some real losers if ya need to ask that.”

“Maybe I just like hearing it. A girl needs compliments, you know.”

“Is that so?” Atsumu murmurs, pinching lightly to see what her reaction is like. She’s a thousand times more sensitive now and it shows. “sh*t, if I thought you were hot before it ain’t nothing compared to now.”

“Prove it.”

Atsumu does his best. He rolls them over so that he’s on top of her, enjoying her smaller body under his and the way she fits in his hands. He plays with her nipples, sucking at them until she’s grasping hard at his hair and her legs are restlessly rubbing along his calves.

He moves down the bed, kissing her stomach next, just above her belly button, his hands on her thighs. “You’re gonna let me eat you out again, right?”

Saeko shoves his head towards her crotch, and Atsumu’s co*ck jumps. “God, yes—why else would I bring you back here?”

“I dunno, thought you wanted to rail me into next week or something.”

“Mmm, I definitely do—but that’s just a bonus.”

She shimmies out of her shorts. Atsumu takes his time peeling down her fishnet stockings and underwear, centering his focus. He’s about to get the treat of a lifetime, so he figures he better give his absolute best to Saeko right now.

She tastes even better than he remembers, responsive and noisy as he works his mouth between her legs. Her slick smears on his chin and he doesn’t waste any time teasing her. She’d been impatient last time, he recalls, unafraid to grind her puss* onto his face if he took too long to get back to her cl*t.

Her thighs tremble around his ears and Atsumu does his best not to grind his co*ck into the mattress. He’ll get his turn soon enough—this is about Saeko’s pleasure and nothing else.

He feels high off of Saeko’s moans and the way she calls out his name when she peaks, legs squeezing so tight around him that he wonders if he’ll just die from lack of oxygen with his face in her puss*.

Honestly, it sounds like a great way to go out.

“f*ck,” she pants out when he finally lifts his head to give her a break, kissing along the inside of her thigh. “I just had such a good idea.”

“Right now?” Atsumu asks, deeply offended. “Seriously?”

Saeko laughs. “Trust me, it’s a compliment. Hold on.”

She stands up, grabbing a bottle of lubricant on her nightstand and tossing it to him. “Get ready. I’ll be back in a minute.”

With that, she disappears into her bathroom, taking her toy with her.

A tendril of anticipation wraps around him as he pours some of the lubricant on his fingers, warming it up before reaching behind and teasing at his hole. He’s bottomed plenty but never like this.

He’s nice and stretched by the time Saeko comes back out. She has on a topless corset, black thigh highs with garters, and her strap-on buckled on. It’s not intimidating in size, not necessarily, but there’s something about seeing it on Saeko that makes it look even bigger.

She steps up to the bed, still smirking at him. “You ready?”

Atsumu nods, feeling oddly breathless. “Yeah.”

She crooks a finger at him, then points at the spot in front of her feet. “Kneel. Right here.”

Suddenly Saeko’s “good idea” comes to light. He kneels on the plush carpet, the shiny dild* almost directly in front of his lips. She grips the back of his head and pulls him closer. “Show me what else you can do with that mouth of yours.”

On the surface, it should be meaningless. It’s a piece of plastic. Saeko can’t feel a thing. Except it doesn’t seem that way she f*cks into his mouth, making dirty noises and pulling at his hair. It f*cks with his head a little, to be sucking her co*ck when she doesn’t have one.

A real co*ck is more forgiving, Atsumu decides, and the hard, inflexible contours of the strap-on push the limits of his skill. He’s choking after just a few minutes, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes from Saeko’s rough treatment. It should leave him scared for what his ass is about to go through but somehow it just makes him more excited.

“You are good,” Saeko praises with a chuckle, affectionately ruffling her fingers through his bangs. “You must do this often.”

Seriously—what’s Atsumu supposed to say to that? Yeah, I suck a lot of dick, thanks?

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Atsumu rasps out, which is a huge f*cking lie but whatever. It sounds cool.

Saeko’s face implies she doesn’t believe it either but she doesn’t call him out on it. Instead she tilts her head towards the bed. “Go bend over.”

She doesn’t have to ask twice. Atsumu makes his way over, realizing that not only is this position best for Saeko’s height, it also gives him the benefit of his co*ck grinding against the sheets.

As always, the first touch leaves him gasping, his body on a hyper-sensitive overdrive as he waits. Saeko is a funny mix of reverent and rough. Like she appreciates being allowed to do this but knows that gentle treatment is an insult.

The head of the dild* presses against him, a firm pressure for a half-second of anticipation while he tries not to squirm under Saeko’s hands gripping his hips.

Maybe he has some unrealized kinks he needs to further analyze after tonight. For now, he looks back over his shoulder and takes in the fascination on Saeko’s face. She’s loving the position of power, the curious feeling of having Atsumu under her like this. He grins at her, then wiggles his hips. “Any day now, Saeko-chan.”

She smacks his ass for the comment and then pushes forward, sinking the dild* in fully, without so much as a pause for Atsumu to gather his breath. Atsumu’s face smashes into the mattress with the force of the thrust.

Quite frankly, that’s probably a good thing considering how loud his moan is at the sudden movement. It’s no shock that she doesn’t ease into it slowly nor give him a moment to adjust. Maybe that’s because she doesn’t get to truly experience what it’s like to sink into tight, hot heat. No, for Saeko, this must all be about what reactions she can pull out of Atsumu—and for that, there’s no slowing down, just f*cking him until he’s nothing but desperate mess.

Atsumu’s panting like a dog in no time, fingers scrambling on the sheets for purchase. Saeko said she’d been topping lately but she’s hadn’t mentioned that she’s also gotten really f*cking good at it. She hits just the right angle with unerring accuracy, her pace devastating but not so mean that it leaves him feeling like nothing but a hole to abuse.

“Oh m’god—” Atsumu moans, sweat beading on his brow. He’s already at the edge; he wishes he could last longer but it’s been a hell of a night. He thinks maybe he can hold out another few minutes against the delightful way his dick ruts into the mattress. Then Saeko flips him over and once her hand is on his co*ck, it’s all over.

Or maybe it’s the sight of her, all dressed up and mesmerized by where her strap-on glides into Atsumu with each snap of her hips. Maybe it’s the way her chest moves with each thrust or how her grip tightens on the head of his co*ck. “Come, Atsumu. Show me how much you like this,” she orders him and he’s helpless to do anything but follow, shooting cum across his chest as she mercilessly grinds into him.

Thankfully, blessedly, her pace slows and she doesn’t torture him into overstimulation. He just gets to float happily for a moment, all his endorphins rushing to the surface and leaving him boneless.

Holy f*cking sh*t.

He’s the luckiest guy ever.

One of the many nice things about Saeko is she doesn’t kick a guy out of bed two seconds after nutting. It’s kind of cute, the way she likes at least a few minutes of spooning up together, basking in skin on skin comfort. (Yes, telling her this is what got his ass kicked last time.)

Atsumu presses an affectionate kiss to Saeko’s cheek and slides his leg between her calves. Cuddling with someone Saeko’s size does something immense to his ego that he’d rather not think about. “Hey, wanna do me a favor?”

Saeko hums indifferently. She’s smart like that and never commits without knowing what she’s agreeing to.

Atsumu forges ahead. “You’ve got a bunch of Insta followers, right? Wanna post something together?”

She laughs at his obvious ploy. “I’d love to help you out but there’s someone I’ve got my eye on. Can’t have her thinking I’m not available.”

Atsumu makes a noise that can only be described as grumpy before he realizes how out of character the statement is. “Don’t tell me someone’s playing hard to get with you. And that it’s working.”

Saeko lifts one shoulder, the movement too casual and belying her feelings. “I like a cat and mouse game sometimes.”

“Well don’t forget about me once you snag her. I’m open to threesomes, y’know.”

Saeko laughs hard, shoving him so forcefully that she actually manages to move him an inch or two. “Stop it.”

“Never. You miss 100% of the shots you never take.”

Her smile is a mischievous thing. “I’ll think about it.”

Atsumu comes home with a bag full of convenience store sandwiches, tosses half in the fridge, and sits down in the main living area with the other two. Bokuto, always drawn to activity in the kitchen, shows up after a few minutes. “So did you find ‘Kaashi?”

Atsumu shakes his head. His mouth is too full of bread and meat for words.

Bokuto heaves a sigh, as if troubled for him. “Well, maybe I can invite him over to a party or something.”

“Dn’t’ch invite h’m t’ errythin’?” Atsumu asks, barely understandable. Bokuto seems to have no trouble interpreting.

“Well yeah… but this time I’d try really hard to convince him! He’s just super busy with the paper on top of assignments and studying and stuff.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “I mean, isn’t he just the editor? Don’t other people write all the stories?”

“Noooo, it’s not like that,” Bokuto answers, rushing to Akaashi’s defense. “It’s a ton of work! People are always forgetting things at the last minute and sometimes he has to fill in for people and that’s on top of The jacko*ff articles he has to put together!”

Bokuto slaps a hand over his mouth in dismay as soon as the words are out in the air. His eyes widen comically.

Atsumu stares at Bokuto in disbelief. “Seriously? He’s the one responsible for printing that damn list?”

Bokuto stares back, hand still over his mouth. Atsumu feels weirdly bad about it. “Ya know what, nevermind,” Atsumu says. “Don’t say anything else. I just need to talk to Akaashi-kun myself. I bet we can clear the air real easy.”

Atsumu’s resolve clicks back into place.

Akaashi Keiji, you’re next.

Chapter 3: Akaashi Keiji

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing everyone should know about Miya Atsumu, it’s that a certain list featuring his name is complete and utter bullsh*t. He’s not any closer to finding out who wrote it, thanks to some recent diversions, but he hasn’t given up on proving it wrong.

He’s putting that goal on hold for tonight, though, because if there’s another thing everyone should know about him, it’s that he’s the undisputed beer pong king of STI.

Tonight he’s made quick work of all the enterprising underclassmen who dared to challenge him, taking particular pleasure in beating Kageyama. Kageyama may have played a stellar game last week, but three quarter-cups of lager and his hand-eye coordination went to sh*t. Hinata was similarly a lightweight, despite his protests otherwise, and none of the non-athletes stood a chance. He’d have loved to test his skill against Sakusa, who he’s always suspected would be good at beer pong if he ever deigned to try it, but as usual Sakusa was holed up in his room until things wound down enough for him to start cleaning up spills. Instead Atsumu played decent games against Bokuto and Suna and in the end prevailed over both, leaving only one real contender.

Osamu missed their official beer pong tournament a few months back and has been denigrating Atsumu’s claim to the champion title ever since.

(“Who the hell schedules a beer pong tournament on a Wednesday night during finals week?! Ya knew damn well I had to be up early on Thursday for my civ test,” he complained.

“Like ya give a sh*t about yer civ grade; ya just chickened out ‘cause ya knew ya couldn’t win,” Atsumu countered.)

Tonight he seems intent on proving his point, matching Atsumu point for point until reaching the sudden death standoff in which they now find themselves.

Neither of them has missed a shot into the other’s final cup for the last 10 minutes, and the cheering of the crowd around them has reached a level of chaos beyond even the tournament finals. At some point one of Osamu’s supporters started up a chant of MI-YA, apparently too drunk to realize it was Atsumu’s name, too, and Suna—who’s officially on Atsumu’s side, thanks to a long-ago competition for his allegiance—thought it would be funny to start the same chant for him. Now everyone is the crowd in the dining room is chanting MI-YA, repeated continuously at an ever-growing volume, and it’s carried on long enough to go from ridiculous to f*cking hilarious.

Atsumu is lining up his shot and basking in the attention when a tall figure standing at the edge of the crowd catches his eye.

He never did find Akaashi at the concert last week, but he figured it wouldn’t take long to run into him. He’s friends with Bokuto, after all, and apparently even Osamu knows him—the other day he spotted them at a table at the library together. It would have been a decent excuse to chat him up, but he didn’t want to remind Osamu about the article if he could avoid it. He decided instead to bide his time and wait for another opportunity.

What he didn’t expect was that it would be here.

Quickly, Atsumu takes in a few data points about Akaashi: 1) He’s not drinking, 2) He’s holding himself awkwardly, like he isn’t sure what to do with his arms in the crowd, and 3) His eyes are fixed firmly on Osamu even as Atsumu prepares to throw.

Interesting, Atsumu thinks. He tosses the ball and lands it with a splash in Osamu’s cup, to an uproar of hoots and hollers. He glances over and sees Akaashi unmoved, still watching Osamu as he fishes the ball out.

Osamu takes solemn aim and lets his shot fly. The ball circles the rim and drops in—

—and Akaashi raises his hands and claps politely, one corner of his mouth tugging into a smile.

Atsumu grins.

“C’mon, Samu, aren’t ya bored of this?” he calls, over the din of the crowd. “Let’s do bounce shots, all or nothin’.”

Osamu lifts his eyebrows. “Usual rules?”

He means their rules, instituted for the two of them after they sent all of Omega Three chasing after slapped-away balls for an hour last year. Atsumu nods, and Osamu raises a hand to cover his eyes.

Atsumu aims his shot well, bouncing at the center of the table and arcing straight toward the cup, but Osamu bats it away easily, and it skitters onto the floor. A loud oooooh goes up from the crowd as they trade roles.

It’s finally quiet now, which ought to give him an advantage—how Osamu even heard the ball over the previous racket, he’s not sure. But he’s never had Osamu’s freaky knack for sensing the ball blind, and anyhow, this isn’t a regulation game; his title will go unchallenged.

There’s a plastic tap somewhere in front of him; he waves a lazy hand in the air, misses, and hears the ball plop into his cup. The crowd erupts and restarts the MI-YA chant as Atsumu concedes, tossing the ball aside and draining his cup. Osamu has both fists raised in an unsmiling pose of victory, and he yells something inaudible but clearly unflattering at Atsumu as his side of the table starts to slap his back and shove his shoulders in congratulations.

“I want to play Myaa-Sam next!!” Bokuto yells, from over Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Ya already lost, dumbass,” says Atsumu.

“Let’s switch to doubles, then! You and Samu against me and… oh, Akaashi!”

Akaashi drags his gaze away from Osamu, who’s shotgunning a celebratory beer someone handed him.

“Akaashi, you wanna play? We can team up!”

Akaashi shakes his head. “No, thanks. I’m fine watching.”

“C’monnnnnn, I can teach you the rules.” Bokuto’s interest in this goal is short-lived, though; before Akaashi can respond, he’s already turned away. “SUNA!” he yells. “Help me beat Tsumu and Samu!”

Suna agrees and starts setting up a fresh arrangement of cups, and Atsumu sidesteps around the corner of the table.

“I gotta tap out,” he tells Bokuto. “Don’t wanna strain my arm for our game next week, ya know?”

It’s an obvious lie, but Bokuto is too drunk to care; he just lets out an awwww and then turns his attention to recruiting Hinata. Hinata sets up the cups on the other end, and the next round starts. Osamu looks mildly surprised to find himself in a new game once he’s polished off his beer, but he doesn’t question it, fishing his ball out of the water cup when it’s his turn.

Atsumu sidles his way into the crowd, waits for Osamu to be focused on his target, and then leans in toward his own.

“Haven’t seen ya here before,” he says, near Akaashi’s ear.

Akaashi startles and turns. “—Oh. Hi.”

“You’re Samu’s friend, right? I’m his brother.”

“You don’t say.”

“Atsumu,” he presses on, undeterred by Akaashi’s deadpan face. “I’m also one of the hosts here, ya know. It’s my job to make sure you’re havin’ a good time.”

“I am,” Akaashi says, as Osamu’s shot hits its mark. Hinata lets out a whoop, and Osamu gives in to his bid for a double high-five, returning Hinata's grin.

“Ya sure about that?” Atsumu lets the question linger for a moment before adding, “I mean, ya don’t even have a drink.”

Akaashi doesn’t turn toward him, but his eyes flick over briefly. “Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.”

“Hey, we’re not total degenerates. We’ve got mixers.” He takes advantage of the next flash of eye contact to give Akaashi his most charming smile. “C’mon, this game’ll take a while. Lemme show ya where the soda is.”

It takes Akaashi a moment to respond. Atsumu follows his gaze to see Osamu tipping a cup of beer into his mouth, his face starting to flush from the alcohol.

“Alright.” Akaashi finally shifts his gaze to Atsumu. “I could go for a diet co*ke.”

He follows Atsumu through the crowd to the basem*nt fridge, where the options turn out to be lacking—all that’s left of the mixers is a half-empty 2 liter bottle of ginger ale and a couple of cans of tonic.

“Water is fine,” Akaashi says, looking unimpressed.

“Naw, sh*t, I know we bought more than this. It’s gotta be upstairs.” He turns and heads that way before Akaashi can insist on water, and the gamble pays off: when he gets to the top of the stairs and glances back, Akaashi is behind him. “Kitchen’s this way,” Atsumu says, and guides him through the darkened common room-slash-dance floor and past two couples making out in the hall.

The kitchen was packed earlier in the night, but the crowd has thinned out since the entertainment picked up in the common room and downstairs. Atsumu squeezes past a small group talking by the island and pulls open the fridge, where he finds the soda boxes he was looking for. Apparently they didn’t make it into the fridge long ago, though; the can he retrieves is barely cool.

“Hold on, I’ll get ya some ice.” He pulls a plastic tumbler from one of the cabinets and scoops in some bagged ice from the freezer, then pours the soda over it. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks,” Akaashi says, and takes a sip from it. He looks less skeptical than before, Atsumu thinks; maybe the offering worked. He takes another sip, then sets the cup on the island and says, “It’s Bokuto who’s my friend, actually.”

“‘Scuse me?”

“You said I was your brother’s friend, but I haven’t known him long. I’m just tutoring him in comparative literature.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” Atsumu smirks then, his plausible deniability growing thin. His and Osamu’s grades are both generally decent, considering how much time they spend on extracurriculars, but if anything they have the hardest time with math and science. When it comes to the humanities, Osamu shares his talent for spewing Cliff Notes-based bullsh*t that somehow manages to pass for insightful.

“I went to high school with Bokuto, though,” Akaashi finishes.

“Hmmm. Yeah, I knew that. He mentions ya pretty often.” He lets his smirk grow, deliberately, and doesn’t break Akaashi’s gaze. “He always said he couldn’t talk ya into comin’ to our parties, though, so I figured something must’ve changed yer mind. Or someone.”

Akaashi doesn’t blush, but he purses his lips in a way that seems self-conscious. He’s awfully cute, Atsumu notices, a little late. He’s tall and built like he works out, but between his glasses and stern expression he’s got a kind of hot-librarian thing going on. If Osamu is into him (if, he reiterates to himself; it’s not like he knows), Atsumu can’t fault his taste.

“I love Bokuto, but he and I have very different ideas of fun,” Akaashi explains. “When Osamu said the parties here weren’t too wild, I was more inclined to believe him.”

Atsumu chuckles as that statement falls into place. Outside of Atsumu’s influence, Osamu is able to present himself as a quiet, thoughtful student who takes his classes seriously and enjoys wholesome pursuits like tossing a frisbee around the quad. He probably is that person, most of the time; certainly it’s the only side of himself that he’d let someone like Akaashi see.

“Well, no one’s barfed on the floor or gotten the police called on us yet, so I’d say it’s not as wild as it could be.” Atsumu shrugs. “But I get it if watching beer pong ain’t yer thing.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Akaashi says, which is probably true—he seemed to enjoy watching Osamu well enough. “It was a little loud, though.”

“Ya might wanna hang out up here until they wrap up, then,” Atsumu says, not mentioning that that’s likely going to be well into the night. “It’s only gonna get louder.”

“You realize the only two people I know here are downstairs.”

“Well now, that ain’t true.” Atsumu leans back against the counter. “After I introduced myself and everything.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you this welcoming to everyone who wanders in here?”

“Uh-huh. ‘Course I am.”

Akaashi holds his gaze for another moment, then gives a soft huff. “You know, given your reputation, I think I might believe you.”

Right, Atsumu remembers, his reputation. That was why he’d singled Akaashi out in the first place—not just to see how far his resemblance to Osamu might let him push his luck.

“Hey, I got no problem being known for gettin’ around,” he says. He pushes himself across the gap to the island and leans onto one hand, bringing himself close enough not to be overheard. “What I don’t get is how I’d get as much action as I do if I were actually ‘the worst lay in Omega Three.’ That make any sense to you?”

“People looking to get laid at frat parties aren’t known for being particularly discerning in their choice of partners,” Akaashi answers mildly.

“Yeah, right. Do you really think Kageyama could be better in bed than me?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That didn’t stop ya from puttin’ it in print, though, did it?”

To his credit, Akaashi barely reacts. Honestly, he and Samu deserve each other, with how good their poker faces are.

“Don’t tell me this was all a ploy to plead your case.” He gives Atsumu a critical sidelong glance, but his mouth is quirked in amusem*nt. “And here I thought you were just hitting on me.”

“Who says it can’t be both?” Atsumu dares to lean a little closer. “I’m just sayin’, I wouldn’t expect someone with yer journalistic standards to publish that kind of bullsh*t libel.”

“If you’d read the story carefully,” Akaashi murmurs, “you’d have noticed that it didn’t endorse the validity of the list, but merely reported on its appearance.”

“With pictures.”

“Pictures that were already circulating rapidly on social media. It’s The jacko*ff’s mandate to cover stories relevant to the student zeitgeist.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyhow, ‘libel’ refers only to statements of fact.” Akaashi’s gaze flicks toward him once more. “I’m afraid how good a lay you are is entirely subjective.”

“Well then,” Atsumu says, and slides his arm across the kitchen island behind Akaashi’s back. “How ‘bout a second opinion?”

Akaashi narrows his eyes. “You want to hook up with me so I’ll write a piece on how good you are in bed?”

“I’d settle for a retraction.”

“I suppose our readers might enjoy a follow-up piece.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It could actually be a good story,” he muses. “We could interview some first-hand sources, maybe run an online poll. See how public opinion compares to what the list alleges.” His expression has turned distant, like he’s already planning how to collect the data he needs. Well, a story on public opinion is better than nothing, even if Atsumu was starting to feel hopeful about the idea of a hands-on demonstration.

“Hey, I’d appreciate that.”

“I wouldn’t be doing it as a favor. And you might not be any happier with the results.”

“Nah, I doubt it. I mean, I’ve never gotten any complaints.”

“Not to your face,” Akaashi murmurs. He hasn’t pulled away, Atsumu realizes, not even as Atsumu has leaned in heavily toward him.

“What, ya think I can’t tell if someone’s enjoyin’ themselves?” Atsumu asks, letting his lips drift close to Akaashi’s ear. “Ya wound me, Akaashi.”

Akaashi gives a slow blink at the sound of his name. He’s quiet for a moment, then allows: “You can call me Keiji.”

A tingle of anticipation washes through Atsumu’s limbs, catching him by surprise. He lifts his hand from the island and touches it to Akaashi’s shoulder. Akaashi inhales and tilts toward him fully. Oh, hell yeah, Atsumu thinks, and kisses him.

For how stiff he seemed earlier, Akaashi is surprisingly quick to respond. He gives a small sigh and melts into the contact, returning the kiss and then deepening it. Atsumu feels a little heady, senses fuzzy from the beer still working through his system, but Akaashi has no such excuse. Knowing that makes the soft sound of arousal rising in his throat all the sweeter.

“f*ck, you’re cute,” Atsumu breathes. “Samu’s a dumbass, invitin’ ya here and then lettin’ ya outta his sight.”

“He didn’t invite me. I came on my own.”

“Oh yeah? Guess I don’t have to feel bad about this, then.” Atsumu touches his palm to Akaashi’s jaw and kisses him again, giving a pleased hum when Akaashi shivers in response.

“You could feel a little bad,” Akaashi murmurs. “I’ve never kissed anyone less than ten minutes after meeting them.”

“I’m not gonna feel bad for expandin’ yer horizons.” He tips his head to press a kiss onto Akaashi’s ear. “Plus, ya got a head start on knowin’ me. Samu and I are basically the same person, except he tries harder not to be an asshole.”

“And you’re more shameless,” Akaashi says breathlessly, as Atsumu slides his hand to Akaashi’s collarbone and then down his chest.

“Uh-huh. That too.”

Suddenly Akaashi stiffens, glancing toward the hall, and for a moment Atsumu thinks he’s in deep sh*t—but when he looks, there’s no one there. Maybe Akaashi just realized the possibility of being discovered.

“My room’s upstairs, ya know,” he ventures. “If you’re lookin’ for someplace quiet.”

“God, you are shameless.” Akaashi looks more amused than offended, but he still pulls away, to Atsumu’s disappointment. “No, I should… head back.” His eyes flick over Atsumu’s face for a moment, his expression uncertain. “Bokuto’s probably wondering where I went.”

“Ya liar,” Atsumu teases. “You’re gonna go try and get with my brother. Now who’s shameless, huh?”

Akaashi purses his lips, but he doesn’t deny it.

“Alright, alright,” Atsumu says. Before he can give into temptation, he steers Akaashi out of the kitchen with a hand pressed to the small of his back. “Let’s go find that loser.” He has a feeling it wouldn’t take much to talk Akaashi out of returning to Osamu, but he decides he shouldn’t be that much of an asshole.

As it turns out, though, he doesn’t need to be.

They don’t even make it out of the hall before he starts to hear the chant of MI-YA from under the thumping music in the common room. It’s not coming from the basem*nt, though—instead they follow it through the sliding doors and onto the patio, where Bokuto and Suna are holding Osamu’s legs aloft while he performs what must be, judging by the volume of the shouting, a pretty sick kegstand.

Atsumu feels a twinge of jealousy at the attention—he can totally outdo Samu at kegstands; everyone knows that—but it’s quickly doused when Akaashi comes to a stop in front of him. Against the cool night air, the warmth of his back radiates into Atsumu’s chest.

They watch as the chanting grows louder and louder, until finally Osamu sputters and sprays a mouthful of beer onto the pavement. He tumbles to the ground and lets out a drunken whoop as the crowd cheers. Bokuto goes to give him a hand, but they come up off-balance and both fall back onto the ground, laughing.

It’s not a bad opening, Atsumu thinks. He’s still debating whether or not to take it when Akaashi tilts his head back and says, just loud enough for him to hear: “You know, I really thought you were the dumb, fratty one.”

Atsumu chuckles and curls his fingers around Akaashi’s side. “I mean, I am, too. Is that not yer type?”

“Hmm,” Akaashi murmurs, and leans unsubtly into his touch. “I didn’t say that.”

Atsumu’s restraint snaps, and he moves quickly, grabbing a handful of Akaashi’s shirt and tugging him away before Osamu can spot them. He’s a little worried Akaashi will change his mind before they get up to his third-floor room, but he shouldn’t be—they’ve barely gotten in the door when Akaashi winds an arm around his neck and kisses him, and Atsumu has to have the presence of mind to pull away long enough to throw the door shut.

“What do ya like?” he asks, when he’s maneuvered Akaashi back against the wall, palms running over his sides. Then: “Wait, you’re not like—a virgin or anything, are ya?”

He doesn’t know where that thought came from, but it would sure add a layer of f*cked-up to this beyond what he’s already signed up for. Thankfully, Akaashi shakes his head. “No.” Then he smirks. “Is that your type?”

Atsumu crowds him against the wall and kisses a line down his jaw. “Naw,” he says. “‘Cause then I’d have to take my time with ya, and I’d rather not.”

“sh*t,” Akaashi hisses, his back arching. “Yeah.” He pushes Atsumu towards his mattress, and Atsumu spends a few seconds trying to straighten the tangle of bedding on top of it before giving up and pulling it all onto the floor.

“C’mere.” He crawls onto the mattress and pulls Akaashi toward him, and Akaashi obliges, straddling his waist and bracing his forearm on the wall behind his head. Then Akaashi kisses him and starts to grind down onto his lap, and he has to bite back a moan at how good it is. He didn’t think he was all that drunk, downstairs, but he’s quickly starting to feel lightheaded, and his mind shimmers with the idea that letting Akaashi rut against him like this until he comes and then falling asleep would be awesome.

But he has rumors to disprove, and anyhow, Akaashi deserves better. “Mmm, god, hold on,” he gets out, grabbing him by his hips.

“Thought you were in a hurry,” Akaashi says dryly.

“Not in a hurry to cream my pants, sh*t. You’re f*ckin’ deadly, ya know that?”

“What if that’s what I like?” Akaashi rises onto his knees until Atsumu has to look up at him, then thumbs at Atsumu’s nipple and smiles. “The infamous Miya Atsumu, ji*zzing himself before he’s even managed to get my clothes off.”

“Shut up,” Atsumu grouses, and yanks Akaashi’s t-shirt up over his head, sending his glasses askew.

Akaashi laughs and tosses both shirt and glasses aside, then starts to undo his belt. “I would like that,” he admits, “but I’d like it more if you f*cked me.”

“God, yeah.”

Atsumu grabs the lube from the shoebox by his pillow as Akaashi strips and resituates himself, and a minute later he’s in a hazy state of bliss, lying back against his pillows and kissing Akaashi lazily while f*cking him with the fingers of one hand and stroking his co*ck with the other. He doesn’t even have his own dick out yet, but the anticipation is nearly as good—Akaashi is making such hot noises just from this that the thought of being inside him is making him feel untamed.

“I told ya I was responsible for making sure you’re enjoyin’ yerself here," he murmurs, crooking his fingers and shifting his grip to catch the tip of his co*ck on each downstroke. “Think I’m doin’ a good job?”

By the look on Akaashi’s face, he means to say something snarky, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is, “Oh f*ck—”

Atsumu isn’t letting him off that easy, though; he pulls his fingers free and squeezes hard under the head of Akaashi’s co*ck, and Akaashi keens fitfully.

“sh*t,” Akaashi moans, when his tremors of frustration have finally eased. “What was that for?” He tries to smirk, but he looks too wrecked to pull it off. “Don’t think you have the stamina to make me come twice?”

Atsumu huffs at that. “Say the word and I’ll make ya come all night, Keiji. Ya asked me to f*ck ya, though.” He flips them over, feeling his lethargy slip away at Akaashi’s ribbing. “So I’m gonna make it count.”

He pulls down his sweatpants and rolls on a condom that he fishes out of the same shoebox, and then he’s finally pushing into Akaashi, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check as Akaashi lets out an unsteady moan.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, drinking in Akaashi’s reverent expression. “You like that?”

Akaashi is apparently out of comebacks; he just winds his long legs around Atsumu’s back and nods. Atsumu plants his arms and starts to f*ck him, and Akaashi takes it beautifully, his eyes closing and lips parting in a silent cry.

Atsumu indulges in the view for a while, then dips his head down to whisper low into Akaashi’s ear. “I could use some tutoring, too, ya know,” he says. “Think Samu would mind if I got in on yer services?”

Akaashi makes a senseless noise, all his muscles going tight, and Atsumu smirks. It probably ought to be more of a turn-off to get a reaction like that from Samu’s name, but he can’t help the fact that it spurs him on. Kicking his brother’s ass at anything is the oldest impulse he has, and he sure as hell is winning now.

“f*ck,” he groans, as he picks up a rough pace. He’s lucky he’s still a little drunk; it’s the only thing taking the edge off of the heat building in his gut. “God, Keiji.”

Akaashi whines in response, then turns his head to press an incongruously gentle kiss to Atsumu’s cheek. Atsumu wonders if he’s thinking about Samu, but the thought doesn’t stop him from tilting his head to capture Akaashi’s mouth. Akaashi kisses him back sloppily, and the tension in his body pulls taut.

Atsumu draws himself up then, bracing himself with one hand on the wall for leverage as he takes Akaashi’s co*ck in the other. A few firm strokes in pace with his thrusts is all it takes, and he’s gratified when it’s his name that Akaashi gasps before throwing his head back and coming hard.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to follow him, but Atsumu doesn’t. He bites his tongue and f*cks him through the contractions of his org*sm, and when they subside he slows to a stop and takes hold of Akaashi’s legs, looking down at him.

“Think ya can go again?” he asks, smugly, when Akaashi finally opens his eyes.

Akaashi lets out a shaky laugh. “Oh, god.”

“I’m just sayin’, I want it on the record that my stamina is fine.”

“Mmm,” Akaashi hums, and smiles. “You got it.”

In the end, he gets two more org*sms out of Akaashi—one with his mouth, while giving him a break before round two, and another with Akaashi on his knees, palms pressed to the wall while Atsumu f*cks him from behind. Atsumu can barely hold out that time, and when he finally manages to tip Akaashi over the edge he comes almost immediately, groaning and pumping into him while his body is still locked tight.

Atsumu passes out after that—or at least, that’s what he figures must have happened when he comes to in the dark, some time later. To his mild surprise, Akaashi is still there, asleep next to him in his t-shirt and underwear. He must have pulled the comforter back onto the bed; he’s half tangled up in it, facing away.

So much for hospitality, Atsumu thinks, with a twinge of guilt. Well, whatever. At least he made good on his goal of showing Akaashi a good time. He shuffles forward and curls an arm around his waist, snuggling up to him, and drifts back into sleep.

The next time he wakes up, it’s bright outside, and Akaashi is pacing gingerly around his room.

“Mmm,” Atsumu sighs. “Hey.”

“Do you know where my glasses went?” Akaashi greets him.

“Do I know?” he mumbles. “Hell, you threw ‘em somewhere.”

Akaashi keeps searching, and after a minute Atsumu pushes himself to a seat. He remembers Akaashi taking his glasses off with his t-shirt, which apparently he found, but as he surveys the room he realizes that the scattered laundry and torn-open delivery boxes aren’t making things easy.

“Sorry, hold on. Lemme look.” He gets up and starts moving things into piles, eventually finding the glasses trapped between the nightstand and the sheets that he threw onto the floor.

“Thanks,” Akaashi says, and blinks at Atsumu as he puts them on. He doesn’t look embarrassed, exactly—maybe it’s just his poker face; Atsumu’s not sure—but the stiffness in his posture that melted away last night has returned.

“Ya have a good time at yer first frat party?” Atsumu asks.

Akaashi’s lips press together. “Yes. I’d say I enjoyed myself.”

“Well, good.” Atsumu smiles. “So do ya think I can get in on that tutoring? Or better yet, do this again sometime?”

For the first time, a blush rises to Akaashi’s cheeks. “No, I don’t think so.” He averts his gaze, and suddenly Atsumu makes sense of the stilted vibes he’s giving off. He was like this while watching Osamu last night, before Atsumu went and stole his attention away. “Not that—I mean.” Akaashi frowns. “You’re actually kind of sweet.”

“And great in bed,” Atsumu adds.

Akaashi cracks a smile. “Uh-huh.”

“But I’m not really yer type.”

“Well…”

“Not ‘cause I’m ‘dumb and fratty,’” Atsumu guesses, “but ‘cause yer gossip paper probably has a running list of everyone on campus I’ve screwed.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’d need a full-time staffer just to keep it up to date.”

Atsumu laughs. “Well, fair enough.” He drops back onto his bed and watches as Akaashi collects the socks and sneakers he must have kicked off at some point, then sits down at Atsumu’s desk chair to put them on.

He should probably take advantage of the moment to ask about getting that retraction, but what he says instead is, “Ya know, I wasn’t bein’ totally honest about Samu. He’s better than me in a bunch of ways.”

Akaashi looks up from the shoe he’s meticulously untying. “Is that so.”

“Yeah, like. He keeps his sh*t organized, and he actually makes his bed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he knows how to cook. He came over and made garlic focaccia for all of us last week, and it was f*ckin’ great.”

Akaashi’s lips quirk. “Oh.”

“Also, he’s the kind of guy who’ll take ya on a couple dates and get to know ya before tryin’ to get in yer pants. If that’s how ya like to do things.”

“Generally, yes,” Akaashi says, his expression wry. “I can’t say I’ve ever done things this way before.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m honored.” Honestly, the thought of being Akaashi’s first one night stand turns him on a little, but he thinks he’s already pressed his luck as far as it’ll go. He tugs the comforter up to hide his arousal as Akaashi finishes putting on his shoes.

“Thanks,” Akaashi says, awkwardly, when he stands to leave. “For…”

“Keepin’ ya company?” Atsumu says, smiling. “No problem.”

Akaashi gives him a small smile in return, then slips out the door.

Atsumu sighs and burrows into his bed, having realized from a glance at his clock that it’s far too early to face the day. Figures Akaashi is a morning person—he and Samu really do deserve each other.

He thinks he’s owed karmic redemption for putting in a good word for Samu, but when he snags a copy of The jacko*ff from outside the cafeteria two weeks later, he’s dismayed to see a bar chart of the poll results with his own name under the shortest bar.

“Four hundred and eighty-two responses?!” he demands. It’s bullsh*t, obviously—he hasn’t f*cked that many people, and none of the other Omega Threes got anywhere close to as many votes. People must just be tanking his rating based on rumors, or else because they think it’s funny to defame him.

He’s got half a mind to start composing a diatribe to the editor, until he notices the article next to the charts. The tabloid’s writers are only identified by pseudonyms, but something about Overworked Owl sounds familiar.

It should be noted, the third paragraph begins, that the results of this poll largely reflect perceived or expected performance. First-hand accounts of the performance of each fraternity member featured are summarized below as available.

Atsumu flips ahead to where the story continues, and the listings for Omega Three begin—starting with Kageyama Tobio: No sexual partners found, to his immense satisfaction.

He has to flip forward another page to find his own name, followed by a lengthy paragraph. He doesn’t buy the quote from an anonymous source close to the subject about his supposed lack of consideration for others’ needs, but the rest of the commentary is mostly positive. Overall, our investigation suggests that Mr. Miya’s abysmal scores in the popular rating are heavily influenced by pre-existing speculation and do not reflect his actual sexual prowess, the piece concludes, which is about as good a refutation as he could have asked for—if only it weren’t buried on the twelfth page.

Still, it’s something, and he has hope it’ll improve his reputation.

Another week later, he catches a glimpse of Akaashi and the back of Osamu’s head through the window of the Thai restaurant near campus, and the brief nod he gives Akaashi is met with an alarmingly apologetic expression.

> what the f*ck, tsumu??? seriously?????, Osamu texts him, later that evening, and Atsumu vows then to stop hooking up with anyone who’s a better person than he is.

> dont know what ur talking about, he writes back. And then, since he already knows he’s screwed:
> saw u with keiji today though
> tell him i said hi :)

Osamu never responds to his message, and after a few days of shutting him out—during which Atsumu sees him cozied up to Akaashi on campus more than once—apparently chooses denial, and carries on with him like nothing happened.

He thinks he’s gotten off easy, but after a while he notices people on campus darting glances his way and laughing in hushed tones, which is worse than he got even after the list came out.

At least there his name was buried in a long list of others, he realizes, when Suna finally caves and shows him the photo. It’s a bathroom door somewhere on campus, scrawled with a damning message:

FOR A BAD TIME, CALL MIYA ATSUMU

The handwriting is obviously Osamu’s, but none of the eleven-thousand-plus people who’ve liked the post seem to know that.

“f*ck,” he groans. “Think I should I paint over it?”

“Osamu already did. He felt bad about it after it went viral.”

“Guess that explains why he’s talking to me,” Atsumu grumbles. Honestly, it’s not the worst price to pay. Still: “How am I supposed to get laid now?”

“Find someone who doesn’t know what social media is,” Suna advises. “Or suffer in celibacy for a few weeks until people move on.”

Atsumu isn’t sure it’ll be that easy—plus, a few weeks? He can’t be expected to let his reputation hang in the balance that long. “Guess I’d better get out there,” he sighs.

He’s got a lot of work to do if he’s going to turn things around now.

Chapter 4: Ushijima Wakatoshi

Chapter Text

Ushijima Wakatoshi might be the worst partner Atsumu’s ever had the displeasure of working with.

“I think you’re exaggerating things a little, ‘Tsumu,” Suna says, not pausing while he steals Atsumu’s entire bag of shrimp chips, chip by chip. “We’ve both worked with Daishou before.”

Atsumu groans, remembering how he had a bitch of a time explaining to Professor Nekomata why — despite his extensive lectures on the subject — their citations were a mess.

But the problem with Ushijima isn’t that he’s a bad student. “Honestly,” Atsumu admits, “Ushijima probably puts Kita’s work ethic to shame, ya know?”

Suna chokes on a shrimp chip. Serves him right. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s true!”

The problem with Ushijima is that he’s a luddite.

“He only communicates via email, Rin! No texts or anything. Even sends me blurry memes! Through email!”

“Ushijima sends you memes? Ushijima knows what a meme is?”

“They had memes in the Showa era, Rin, don’t be rude to our elders.”

As he bites through another — and the last — shrimp chip, Suna’s eyes narrow while he does the math. “Ushijima is one year older than you, stop being dramatic.”

“He might as well be a hundred for how he communicates! Honestly, he should just send me a letter in the mail at this point. A telegram! A fax! It’d be more convenient, surely.”

“Yeah, okay, I knew it,” Suna says, sticking his hand into the chip bag and grimacing when he nets only crumbs, “you’re insane. So what if he’s a weirdo with an email signature? At least he’s pulling his weight.”

“He sends calendar invites. He refuses to use chat. Why send an email that says I’m here when I can see him standing in front of me!”

The real issue is that Atsumu, after pulling three straight all-nighters during his first finals week and crashing ten minutes after his last exam, went on a bender to learn better time-management skills. Now? He only opens his email once per hour on a good day. It’s helped keep him calm, whereas before he’d frantically F5 his inbox until he got a reply.

But it does put him in direct odds with Ushijima, and in an effort to be a good partner, he’s taken to checking his email more regularly, and has fallen back on old habits..

“Where does he even get those memes?”

“Probably cave walls, Rin, I don’t know! He’s not on Facebook. Or Twitter. Or Instagram. Or-” Atsumu tried everything, in search of any other platform to message him on.

It was no use.

Ushijima’s made for message boards and IRCs; not Snapchat or Omegle.

“Interesting,” Suna says. It’s in the tone of voice he uses when he’s trying to impart something onto Atsumu, like when he calls his choice to wear neon green socks with Adidas slides fascinating. “I’ve never known a college student more offline.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes in suspicion. “I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at, Rin, but you are buying me new chips.”

“I’m buying me new chips.”

It clicks the next time he works with Ushijima.

Their project is close to an end, and Atsumu is looking forward to putting his mail app on do-not-disturb and ignoring it for a full day, consequences be damned.

Because the end is nigh the mood at their working session is much lighter than usual. Ushijima squints down at his ancient phone, a tiny hint of a smile on his face.

"What's got you all excited, Ushiwaka?" Atsumu leans forward across the desk to see. His phone is so old that the resolution renders the image practically illegible, and he watches — in horror — as Ushijima takes a screenshot and attaches it to an email that he sends to some poor soul named Semi.

"Ushijima. My good friend Satori sent me a joke," Ushijima says, still looking down at his phone. "It is very funny."

That explains how he gets all of his deep-fried memes.

"Do you want to see?"

Atsumu nods, nearly bent in half across the desk as Ushijima adjusts the angle to let Atsumu have a better view. Despite its age, the phone is meticulously cared for — not a single crack in the glass, and with a sturdy case. His elbow bumps against Ushijima, but Atsumu pays it no mind. Over the month they've been working on this project, Ushijima's gotten used to Atsumu's idiosyncrasies, especially his need to touch.

The meme is ancient, but funny. “Looks like your good friend Satori has pretty good taste," Atsumu laughs. When he looks up, he realizes that Ushijima's face is very close to his own, and that he's watching his expression intently.

Atsumu knows that expression. He's seen it on the face of his friends and strangers; it's that peculiar desire, the disbelief that their libido might be directed at him.

He calls it his charm. Osamu calls him a fungus.

And that — the unwilted want on Ushijima's honest face — is what makes it click.

Ushijima gets his memes from someone named Satori. Ushijima doesn't have an account on any social media platform. He spends his Friday nights in the gym, his Saturday nights trapped in the geochemistry lab, and the last time someone brought up The jacko*ff in class he frowned and said, "Don't you think that is a little inappropriate?"

There's no mailing list that you can sign up for to get a play-by-play of Atsumu’s f*ck-nanigans over the past few weeks, and Osamu’s damning bathroom door scrawl definitely hasn’t made it to iFunny. Not a single chain-email in the world saying Forward to 15 friends in the next 30 seconds or you risk getting a sh*tty rub and tug from Miya Atsumu. No directly-to-spam junk mail making fun of Atsumu's junk.

It’s been two weeks since Osamu’s stupid little note went Campus Viral and Atsumu is tired of getting laughed out of parties, and had to disable his Tinder and Grindr accounts. It’s college! It should be trivial for him to get his dick wet!

Unfortunately he’s had to go underground, stick his nose to the grindstone, and focus on his schoolwork and frat duties instead of f*cking around. He’s gotten all of his volunteer hours out of the way, but that’s time better spent on his knees.

But Ushijima? Big, strong Ushijima, who is the very definition of not-online and has, somehow, found a spark of interest in Atsumu?

Looks like there’s a cure.

He licks his lips before sitting back down, slowly, watching Ushijima’s gaze follow, never unpinning him. Slouching, he stretches his legs out, letting his foot knock against Ushijima’s ankle and settle there.

Over the table, Ushijima’s eyes widen, just a smidge.

“Say, Ushiwaka,” Atsumu says, voice low and liquid.

“Ushijima,” he corrects out of habit, but there’s no sting to it.

“What do you say we celebrate after turning our project in?” Atsumu rubs a little circle around his ankle, to really sell it, biting his lips and lowering his lids. “Something real special.”

For a moment, Ushijima looks puzzled; it’s like he’s about to suggest hotpot at the place off-campus that has wagyu on the menu, or cracking open a six pack of craft beers. Something mundane. Atsumu needs him to suppress that impulse. He reaches out with his right hand to hover over Ushijima’s, fingers just barely grazing his pulse point. Ushijima’s heartbeat, so steady and careful, starts to race, a little drum below the skin.

“Special…” Ushijima mutters, looking between Atsumu’s hand and his face until his eyes go wide with realization.

In lieu of an answer, Ushijima deliberately puts his phone face down on the table, and opens his laptop. Atsumu sighs, clenching his eyes shut for a second while he wonders if celibacy induces migraines. He’s about to sit back up, mourning the loss of this chance, when Ushijima abruptly grabs his wrist to stop him.

“Atsumu,” Ushijima says, dark eyes intense, even when they’re splitting focus between him and his laptop screen, “I believe we have a report to finish.”

Five minutes after the grade for their assignment appears in their portal, Atsumu gets a calendar invitation from [emailprotected].

It’s set for 6PM, in two days, with the location listed as Omega Three.

Atsumu has never been more delighted to click Accept.

“Eat sh*t, ‘Samu,” he cackles, smugly shoving his phone back into his pocket and turning back to his untouched dinner. Waiting for grades always kills his appetite, but victory replenishes his hunger.

Across from him, Suna — who has definitely stolen his pudding cup, that f*cking bastard — squints at him. “I don’t want to know,” he decides.

“Aw, Rin, I just took your advice!”

“I’ve never given you advice in my life.”

Omega Three has several things that set it apart from the other houses on Frat Row.

One of them is Atsumu, of course. Another is the mascot suit in the basem*nt that no one is allowed to touch, because it’s probably haunted.

But the most important one is the fact that every room in the house is technically a single, and each room shares a bathroom with only one other person. They’re considered suites, but the doors on either side close and lock.

Except for Atsumu’s.

His broke during an unfortunate incident that Omega Three is banned from mentioning, but definitely does not involve the haunted suit.

(He hasn’t gotten around to fixing it.)

Every rose has its thorn, though, and Atsumu’s flower is especially prickly: his suitemate is Sakusa, who took one look at him after the chaos of room claims ended and emailed him a bathroom schedule that he expected them to stick to all year. There was even a time slot for daily cleaning.

Daily!

“This will guarantee a harmonious living situation for the both of us,” Sakusa said, when Atsumu spat and sputtered over the color coded spreadsheet. “Just looking at your head makes me worry about ruining our sink."

As if the sink wasn’t already ruined by virtue of being a frat house. “At least I only have to fix my roots every three to six weeks! You’re the one with a weekly wash cycle. When ya get drunk, all ya do is bitch about how expensive your conditioner is!"

Sakusa reeled back. "Two words, Miya. Purple shampoo."

At the end of that argument, Atsumu agreed to replace the inner curtain lining on a quarterly basis, and Sakusa added in seven more hours of open availability each week.

(One thing Atsumu never asked — and, if he's being honest, never wants answered — is how Sakusa knew he preferred to shower in the mornings.)

Luckily for Atsumu, Wakatoshi's invitation doesn't overlap one of Sakusa's dedicated hair mask sessions, highlighted in blue on their laminated bathroom schedule; that’s an 8PM activity.

There's a knock on his door precisely one minute before their meeting time, and Atsumu — having used one of their open slots to thoroughly shower, prep, and clean — finishes fluffing his pillow before opening the door.

He leans against the doorframe, so he has to crane his neck up to take in the bulk of Ushijima, dressed in an STI sweatshirt and — Atsumu's mouth goes dry — gray sweatpants.

“Hello, sailor,” Atsumu says, letting out a mock whistle. “Glad ya made it up to my room alright. Hope ya didn’t get lost.”

Ushijima shakes his head. “The layout of the Omega Omega Omega is very straightforward, and your instructions were clear. Can we come in?”

Atsumu bows his head, pushing himself off the doorframe to welcome Ushijima in. “Make yourself, right at ho-” His voice trails off as he registers his words.

We, he thinks, as Ushijima shuffles past him, smelling like citrus and lavender. Behind him follows a lanky figure he’d been hiding; a man with a soft buzzcut that emphasizes the abrupt cut of his cheekbones, a devious little smirk on his face.

He is also shockingly well dressed, in an artfully torn sweater and skintight button-fly jeans that Atsumu has been coveting for years.

“Wakatoshi-kun was right,” he says, pausing in front of Atsumu to peer at him. In the wine-drunk well of his eyes, Atsumu imagines long, candlelit dinners. “You are a cutie.”

In spite of the fact that this stranger doesn’t seem to have any notion of respecting Atsumu’s personal space — he closes the door behind them but stays near enough to Atsumu that he goes cross-eyed trying to make out more of him — he grows warm, nearly blushing, from the knowledge that Ushijima must have talked about him.

And then he comes to his senses. “Three’s a bit of a crowd, don’t you think?” Atsumu’s voice is low, like he’s trying to dull this guy’s sharpness. He’s all angles, slouched over, which makes him shorter than Atsumu. At his full height, they’d at least be even.

“I think Wakatoshi-kun added me to the meeting invitation,” he grins.

Atsumu’s eyes narrow as he thinks about it. He’d accepted the invite too fast to really read it, so focused on his impending victory and the end of his celibate humiliation.

“Is that true, Ushiwaka?”

There’s a rustling sound behind him. When Atsumu turns, Ushijima has half of one of his spare nutrient bars stuffed in his mouth.

Atsumu did say to make himself at home.

Ushijima nods. “I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He can’t tell if it’s an insult or something else, and there’s nothing Atsumu hates more than feeling like he’s not in on the joke. It isn’t enough to make him kick Ushijima out of the proverbial bed, but it does make him consider it.

But then there’s a hand on his stomach, and the rasp of a voice in his ear. “Wakatoshi-kun just thought you might like to put on a show,” the friend says, and maybe it’s the touch, or the warmth of his chest against Atsumu’s back, or the soft breeze of his breath on Atsumu’s skin, but it makes him shiver. His fingers tap against Atsumu’s stomach. “And I’m pretty sure he’s right, ain’t he?”

It clicks, suddenly. This familiar stranger.

Osamu’s complained about him a hundred times for violating every food safety standard and flouting it on Instagram; Atsumu has even seen him before, when half of Omega Three attended the fashion club’s winter show last year to support Suna, who’d been bullied into modeling for a girl he met in his Introduction to Ancient Civilizations class. His hair was longer then, but his expression had been just as mischievous.

"You're Ushiwaka’s good friend,” Atsumu says, not turning around. “Satori." He can’t remember his last name.

Satori’s hand stills, and he feels the man pout as he rests his jaw on Atsumu’s shoulder. "Just good friends? I thought we were besties, Wakatoshi-kun. But I'm sure Atsumu and I can be good friends."

Ushijima diligently finishes chewing his snack — washing it down with some of Atsumu’s water, which he finds gross in the same way Sakusa would find gross, which means his suitemate might be rubbing off on him — before replying, “Of course we are besties, Satori,” Ushijima says, as Atsumu mouths the word — besties — along in horror. “And I believe in your ability to make friends. However, that is not why I invited you today.”

“Aww, no new friends for me? That’s a shame.” Satori pulls away from Atsumu, and his body betrays him by letting out a tiny mourning whine. It’s not his fault he’s been so deprived that he’s getting f*ck dumb from a little bit of touching.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, licking his lips, “a damn shame.”

It’s Ushijima’s turn to crowd Atsumu’s space, stepping forward until he’s right in Atsumu’s face, the faint smell of granola on his breath. Despite their proximity, he looks at Satori. “Didn’t you say it would sate your curiosity, Satori? Weren’t you saying that Atsumu is famous?”

“Oh yeah! Now I remember,” Satori says, but by the tone of his voice it’s clear that he’s lying. “What did that note say? For a bad time, call Miya Atsumu?” He practically sings it, leaning forward in the chair while his gaze grows dark.

There must be some country where fratricide is legal. Atsumu is going to take a vacation there and invite Osamu.

“Yes, that one. It seemed so rude to me, since I have always had a good time studying with Atsumu.”

“And as I said to Wakatoshi, they’re not talking about studying,” Satori laughs, but it’s not mean; he just thinks he’s funny.

“So what, you just wanted to see if my skills were as bad as everyone claims?”

This is bad.

Atsumu invited Ushijima over precisely because he was offline. He hadn’t factored in that Satori — Tendou Satori, who goes by Tendou online, the sole admin behind one of STI’s most popular meme pages, who helped the original post spread like wildfire in the first place — would somehow be friends with him.

“Look,” Atsumu says, pushing Ushijima away and turning in a circle, tugging at his hair in frustration. “If ya wanna leave, then leave, okay? Ya don’t have to f*ck me to sate your curiosity or out of pity or whatever. Ya shouldn’t have to suffer through the quote unquote worst lay on frat row.”

This stupid list — and Osamu’s nefarious revenge — will haunt him for the rest of his time at STI. He might need to transfer, or enter a monastery and swear vows of celibacy, or change his name and face to avoid any association with bad sex. He could dye his hair again, run away overseas. Enter witness protection so that all that’s left of Miya Atsumu is an empty gravestone.

Abandon all hoes, ye who enter here.

Kita says he has a vivid imagination; Aran knows that he’s capable of ignoring the whole world when he spirals.

Ushijima presses a hand to his shoulder and squeezes tight, and it pulls Atsumu out of his current fantasy: watching everyone mourn at his fake funeral, Akaashi patting his brother’s shoulder and assuring him that “Atsumu wasn’t that bad at sex, really, but you’re better, Osamu.”

“Atsumu,” Ushijima says, his voice a low and intense rumble that grabs Atsumu’s attention. “It is not an obligation to f*ck you, nor would it be something to suffer through.”

“He’s right,” Satori cuts in, before Atsumu can bring himself to say anything. Ushijima’s thumb is rubbing at his collarbone so he’s a bit distracted. “When he mentioned your proposal, he was so excited! Like a little puppy dog.”

Ushijima frowns. “I disagree with your characterization, Satori.”

“And when I showed him that rude message on the bathroom door, well, he was so taken aback. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that cannot be true.’” Satori’s Ushijima expression is good; he even captures the way his brows must have ruffled. “He was really insistent on that, Atsumu. He really wants this.”

Wants this, Atsumu thinks.

“Do ya really, Ushiwaka?”

“Please, call me Wakatoshi,” he replies, his other hand coming up to rest on Atsumu’s waist like he’s a maiden getting an invitation to dance and not a frattie with a drawer full of condoms and a dream. “And I do want this, Atsumu. I believe you promised me a celebration.”

This time, his gravelly voice sends shivers down Atsumu’s spine; and in lieu of whispers, the weight of Satori’s gaze on his back is a comfortable shroud.

He’s going to kill his brother — but first, he’s going to give Wakatoshi the little death he deserves.

“Then by all means, Wakatoshi-kun,” he hears Satori snort behind him, which is how he knows they’ll be good friends by the end of this, “let’s celebrate.”

If one thing becomes obvious to Atsumu, it’s that Wakatoshi is a bit adrift when it comes to sex.

That’s fine, though; Atsumu knows how to lead.

After he pushes Wakatoshi down onto the armchair in the corner of the room — whose color can best be described as ‘vaguely mauve’ and once belonged to Aran’s friend’s cousin’s landlord, becoming Atsumu’s after he dragged it all the way across campus and steam cleaned it — he nudges Wakatoshi’s legs apart, settling on his knees.

“Lookin’ good!” Satori whistles.

“I know,” Atsumu replies.

Satori snorts.

“Your hair is blond,” Wakatoshi says, abruptly and out of nowhere, his hand hovering far enough away from Atsumu’s head that he can’t tell if he’s coming or going.

“Um, thanks?” When Wakatoshi stays frozen, Atsumu grabs his hand and moves it to his knee, rubbing his wrist to settle him like a spooked animal.

(At least, he thinks that’s how you settle cattle. Atsumu will never set foot near the agrisciences department again.)

“All right there, Wakatoshi?” Atsumu asks, looking up at him, widening his eyes while he rubs slow and languid lines up and down Wakatoshi’s thighs. “Are ya ready for me?”

There’s only one thing he can rely on college boys for: a stiff breeze’ll give ‘em a stiff one, and Wakatoshi’s no different. Atsumu can tell there’s something thick and wanting underneath his sweatpants, and he’s ready to break in.

Wakatoshi nods, making a garbled sound.

That’s enough for him; he just wants to say hello for now.

He slides his hand up to Wakatoshi’s waist, drawing a gasp when his hands graze his co*ck, to pull his sweats down his thighs, revealing his —

“Huh,” Atsumu says, sitting back on his heels. “I didn’t think our school made branded underwear.”

— bright red briefs, the letters STI repeated over and over in white on the maroon waistband.

“They were a ‘free gift with purchase’,” Wakatoshi explains, voice a little strained. “I got them when I purchased textbooks.”

“You should just pirate ‘em, Wakatoshi. That way ya don’t end up with, uh-” There’s no nice way to say thematically inappropriate underwear, but Satori’s cackle fills in the blanks.

“That’s what I said! But good ol’ by-the-book Wakatoshi just had to buy the books, and they gave him a whole box of undies. Bless his heart, he tries to wear ‘em on days when no one’ll see them.”

Atsumu blinks.

There was a calendar invitation.

“Laundry day,” Wakatoshi explains, before Atsumu can pull up the receipts. “It snuck up on me. Can we please move on?”

Although there’s something deeply concerning about this underwear, Atsumu’s f*cked his way past redder flags than this one.

“If that’s really what ya want, Wakatoshi.” Atsumu’s already leering down at his bulge.

“Ye-ah! Atsumu, a warning!” He tugs down Wakatoshi’s underwear, pulling it past his ass and thighs so it’s out of Atsumu’s vision.

Out of sight, out of mind, unless you’re Osamu’s stupid message.

Wakatoshi’s co*ck jumps out, thick and proud, and Atsumu nearly sheds a tear.

“Are you crying?”

“Shut the f*ck up, Satori.”

It’s been so long since anyone’s let him this near their dick that he can’t help his joy. Wakatoshi’s co*ck is thick, and a little shorter than Atsumu expected, but he appreciates it just the same.

Has he prepped himself enough? Who knows, but he can just imagine the way Wakatoshi will make him ache.

First thing’s first, though: a proper hello.

Ignoring whatever weird thing Wakatoshi’s doing with his hands, he presses a kiss to the top of Wakatoshi’s dick, drawing a deep exhale from him, spreading his lips to push back the foreskin and reveal a gemdrop of precum, before licking down to suck on his balls. They’re heavy and welcome; just like the scent of Wakaotshi’s citrus bodywash and the underlying smell of his body that he can’t get rid of, that Atsumu’s missed so much; just like the way Wakatoshi’s thighs press against the sides of his head while he clenches his legs.

“Easy, Wakatoshi,” he hears Satori say, voice a little muffled through Wakatoshi’s legs, and he listens, spreading them wider so Atsumu can resurface, spit lingering on his lips and dripping onto the armchair. He’s gonna be buried with this thing.

“Do you need a napkin?” Wakatoshi asks.

Atsumu blinks rapidly.

“What,” he says, turning to Satori as if to ask ‘what’s his deal?’, but Satori already has his face in his hands.

It takes him a long moment to rise again — during which Wakatoshi reaches for his pockets and Atsumu swats his hand away — and when he does he slaps both of his thighs like he’s a father about to impart some wisdom onto his kids.

“You know,” Satori starts, and Atsumu realizes that he isn’t even hard; it’s easy enough to tell, given how tight his pants are. “If Wakatoshi-kun were in a frat, he’d’ve been right next to you on that list?”

“I hardly think that’s fair-” Wakatoshi protests, but Satori cuts him off with a sharp glance.

“You’re lucky that I suck Semi’s dick often enough to convince him to delete all of those submissions to STI Confessions,” Satori hisses. This is the weirdest time for Atsumu to learn the identity of the mod behind the campus’s meanest anonymous page. “And don’t forget homecoming last year! Do you know how much damage control I had to do?”

Wakatoshi’s mouth snaps shut.

Curiosity might kill cats or whatever, but Atsumu’s no feline. “What happened after homecoming?”

“I can’t risk that information getting out.” Satori shakes his head apologetically. He treats it with all the stoic dignity that an official in a Bond film might carry, before trying their hand at assassination.

Given the last weeks of Atsumu’s life, he gets it: a student’s sexual reputation means everything.

“I’m gonna be level with you, Atsumu.”

“If you didn’t slouch, you would be.”

Satori sends him a look that gives him the bad shivers. “I’m only here out of — let’s say — 20% curiosity. The rest is because Wakatoshi is clinically incapable of dirty talk, and I’m trying to save both his dignity and yours.”

That explains the comment about his hair and the napkins. Does that mean Wakatoshi’s trying, or that he’s completely given up? Either way, Atsumu can’t help but find that-

“Cute,” he says, and Wakatoshi frowns.

“God help the outcasts,” Satori exclaims, rubbing his head. “Of course you think that’s hot.”

“S’not what I said,” Atsumu replies, sticking out his tongue. Before Wakatoshi can react, he leans forward again and grips the base of his co*ck, swirling his tongue around the head to convert Wakaotshi’s unvoiced protest into a groan. “Didn’t I promise a celebration, Wakatoshi?” When Atsumu looks up at him, he knows what he looks like — wide mouth hanging open over Wakatoshi’s co*ck, lips glistening, eyes half-lidded and sultry. “I gotta make good on that.”

He pumps his fist before stretching his lips around the broad head, trying not to moan himself at how good and familiar it feels to be sucking a dick again.

Yeah, that’s the f*cking ticket, Atsumu thinks, his eyes fluttering shut while he tongues around the head, idly stroking the length with his thumb, before bobbing his head down to swallow him deeper. Atsumu’s taken advantage of college life — and Omega Three’s parties — to suck a wide variety of dick; he could write an encyclopedia on them.

But ultimately a co*ck in hand is worth two in the bush; the best dick is the one you happen to be sucking. He loves it, could go hazy and nearly brainless with just Wakatoshi weighing down his tongue, stretching his throat as he pushes forward, nosing against his pubes, eyes closed so he can savor this with the senses that matter.

The taste, the smell, the sensation: a hand on Wakatoshi’s thighs to keep him from jerking too much, the little micro-shifts in his hips as he twitches involuntarily to Atsumu’s ministrations, the co*ck jerking and leaking in his mouth, the hand that’s landed on Atsumu’s shoulder.

Most importantly the sounds he’s wringing out of Wakatoshi like this — Satori in silence — the soft moans and grunts, the shuffle of his socked feet against the floor as he tries to adjust himself, the deep breaths as Atsumu takes him just a bit further, cradling his balls and squeezing them just for fun and to hear Wakatoshi choke back a sob.

“-so good, Atsumu, like a vacuum, sucking me down.”

Atsumu pulls off Wakatoshi’s dick before he involuntarily bites it off, torn between choking and laughing as he sputters. “Aw hell, Wakatoshi, don’t compare a boy to a common appliance!” And don’t tell me you’ve put a vacuum to your dick, he thinks. That’s unsanitary.

To his credit, there’s a little shame on Wakatoshi’s face as Satori bursts into laughter. “Toldja so, Atsumu. It’s like an impulse with this guy. There’s no way to get him to stop.”

When Atsumu finally calms down, jaw a little achy, he notices that Wakatoshi’s co*ck has started to wilt and his hands have migrated down to his waistband, like he’s going to get dressed again.

Not a chance in hell — Atsumu’s not gonna leave him hanging and sully his tarnished reputation with the truth while losing his last shot at getting laid before succumbing to celibacy.

Between a life in the clergy and bearing through Wakatoshi’s dodgy dialogue, the lesser of two evils is clear to him.

“I’ll find a way,” Atsumu says, standing up and pulling off his shirt; he was aiming for sexy but struggled to get it over his head, so by the time he can see again, Wakatoshi seems to be suppressing a laugh. “Don’t you start with me, big guy. Not until ya apologize for comparing me to a roomba.” Atsumu tugs off his pants and kicks them aside — he hadn’t been wearing underwear, but before Wakatoshi takes a second glance at his body, he looks mournfully at his clothes on the floor, like he’d prefer to carefully fold them up.

But when he finally turns back, he can’t help but rake his gaze up and down Atsumu; the attention makes him preen, and Wakatoshi’s ailing co*ck twitches back to life. He’s never felt more proud.

“I do not think your dick would fit in a roomba,” Wakatoshi murmurs, and the intensity of his voice belies the audacity of his words.

“You gotta say you’re sorry first.” He’s going to ignore the game of tetris you’d have to play to stick your co*ck into a roomba, or most vacuum cleaners, honestly. Instead, he straddles Wakatoshi, resting his weight on his thighs. Wakatoshi makes a shocked noise, and — after looking at Satori, like his bestie is his training wheels — he rests his hands on Atsumu’s hips.

“I am sorry,” Wakatoshi says, while Atsumu digs between the cushion and the armrest to find the spare lube and condoms he’d secreted away, raising them in triumph, “for comparing you to a vacuum. Even though you are acting like one right now.”

“You know? For both our sakes, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” Atsumu sticks out his tongue while he rips open the condom, Wakatoshi’s eyes going wide; it takes a small act of contortion to reach under them and tug it over Wakatoshi’s co*ck, but he succeeds.

Wakatoshi watches warily as Atsumu squirts out lube onto his left hand. “Won’t that ruin this chair?” he cracks eventually.

Satori snorts; he has a perfect view of all of the questionable stains on the fabric. They’ll have to burn this when he finally abandons it.

“You know, Wakatoshi?” Atsumu says, pumping around Wakatoshi’s co*ck so he can see, up close, the changes in his expression as Atsumu strokes him. “You and your bestie have a lot in common.”

“Oh? I think we are very different, actually.”

“You’re wrong, big guy. Neither of ya know when to shut up, so I’m gonna help ya.”

Does saving Wakatoshi’s sexual reputation count as community service? He’ll have to bring it up at the next chapter meeting.

Before Wakatoshi can protest, Atsumu shoves two of his clean fingers into his mouth, thumb on his jawline keeping them stable, and the words die in his throat. “Go on, Wakatoshi. Get me nice and wet.”

He pushes his fingers in deeper until Wakatoshi gets with the program, sucking and licking his fingers until they’re soaked and Atsumu shoves in a third. When he tugs them away to push them inside, feeling his muscle relax and give, he kisses Wakatoshi and groans into his mouth.

“Brilliant work, Atsumu,” Satori says, smug and proud, all at once.

Wakatoshi’s much better at kissing than he is at talking, a hand coming up to steady the back of his head while the other cups his cheek, tugging him up and giving him more space to slick his hole with Wakatoshi’s spit and spare lube. He’s not too focused on stretching; knows that the co*ck’ll do the rest of the work for him.

And, mercifully, Wakaotshi doesn’t question it when he pulls off of him to readjust, brace his hand on the back of the armchair and line up Wakatoshi’s dick with the other, before he sinks down on his co*ck and nearly bites his own tongue because of how good it feels.

God has he missed this; the stretch, the ache, the sensation of being full. He pants into Wakatoshi’s ear while he gets used to the feeling of him, bottoming out fast enough that it punches the breath out of his lungs. The tip of his co*ck brushes against Wakatoshi’s soft sweatshirt; he’ll apologize for that, and the dark streaks of precum, later.

For now, what matters is this: learning Wakaotshi’s dick, raising his hips to gauge how high he can go without pulling off entirely until it’s muscle memory. “How does he feel, Atsumu?” Satori asks, and he’ll forgive the peanut gallery, just this once.

“So good,” Atsumu moans; Wakatoshi’s co*ck jerks inside of him, and his hands come up to grasp Atusmu’s waist, once more.

“Atsumu, you fe-”

“Not again,” Atsumu hisses, kissing him once more to swallow down the disaster taking shape in Wakatoshi’s lungs, and he can sense his discontent for a moment before he squeezes around his dick, and he knows all is forgiven.

It may have taken Atsumu a year longer than Osamu to learn how to ride a bike, but he’ll never forget how, just like he knows how to bounce and grind his hips to make Wakatoshi moan and pant into his mouth, bite at his lips, dig his fingers into his hips and leave bruises that Bokuto’ll make fun of him for.

He almost laughs at how good it all feels; instead, he tosses his head back, chasing the edge that keeps narrowly escaping him, and tugs Wakatoshi’s head to his chest.

And Wakatoshi — brilliant student Wakatoshi, the best project partner at STI — is a fast learner; he sucks on one of Atsumu’s nipples and keeps himself occupied, an independent study now that Atsumu’s set him free.

And thank god for that, because between the sharp bites on his chest, the co*ck splitting him wide, his own hand pumping himself, he can see the horizon; rides his bike right towards that beautiful sunrise of his org*sm.

Though he tries to keep as much as possible in his hand, some of it spills onto Wakatoshi’s sweatshirt; escapes his fingers as he bites his lip, trying not to scream; who knows if Sakusa’s in the suite, only two thin doors between them.

Wakatoshi’s hips erratically jerking up into him as Atsumu’s org*sm triggers his own, practically yelling into Atsumu’s chest as he comes, until the room is quiet but for their unaligned heartbeats and attempts to steady their breaths.

And, of course, a slow, rhythmic pattern that Atsumu can’t quite place until he turns to look at Satori, applauding them.

“Bravo!” he sings. “Encore! World tour! Las Vegas residency! Three straight sold out nights at Madison Square Garden! Hip hip hoo-hey!”

Satori is lucky the lube doesn’t explode when Atsumu brains him with it.

Atsumu ends up lending Wakatoshi a spare shirt while Satori orders them dinner and pulls out his illegal dorm room chocolate as an ‘aperitif.’

“Boys like you need to keep your energy up,” he says. Wakatoshi opens his mouth to accept a truffle, and Atsumu eyes his own dubiously until Satori shoves it in anyway.

“You can wash it if you wanna,” Atsumu says, the tenth time Wakatoshi looks at the desk chair that his sweatshirt is on, “or at least rinse the dirty parts.”

“It is the entire front, Atsumu. I might as well wash the whole thing.” Wakatoshi glares at him, no heat in it.

Atsumu rubs the back of his head as if to say aw, shucks. Honestly, he hadn’t tried very hard to not make a mess.

“Bathroom’s right through that door. Be my guest.” He waves in that direction, letting out a low whistle as Wakatoshi walks towards it, high-fiving Satori when Wakatoshi gives him the finger.

But something catches his eye, and he squints towards his bathroom door.

Strange, he thinks. I’m sure I had that closed earlier.

Chapter 5: Sakusa Kiyoomi

Chapter Text

Atsumu spits out his coffee when the notification flashes across his phone.

The cup nearly tumbles over in his haste to set it down and open the text, only saved by Hinata’s quick reflexes. The link opens up to an opinion column of the latest digital jacko*ff publication.

In Defense of Miya Atsumu: A Repudiation of the Omega Omega Omega Sexual Competence Poll Results

Submitted by Anonymous

I was rather displeased when I learned about the original Omega Omega Omega (henceforth Omega 3) member ranking, and even more so after seeing the follow-up poll results. It has also come to my attention that, beyond the publications, a bathroom stall graffiti with the statement For A Bad Time, Call Miya Atsumu has cycled around the campus internet sphere. Since I am “offline”, my good friend, who will also remain anonymous, only brought these to my attention recently.

I reject the claims of all of the above: I have had a good time with Miya Atsumu, both inside and outside of intercourse.

Atsumu chokes on his bite of eggs.

Having only had sexual relations with two of the brothers,

Two?! Most of the Omega 3 brothers absolutely kiss and tell, so Atsumu doesn’t know how he missed this. Maybe Wakatoshi asked for their discretion, but anonymous or not, he’s also the one out here writing an extensive piece on his sex life, so Atsumu’s not sure that the word “discretion” is even in his vocabulary.

I cannot speak on all of Omega 3 members’ sexual competence. However, from my limited experience, I thoroughly believe that the ranking is biased against Miya Atsumu. He does not deserve to be in last place.

My good friend told me that, as the original article was published four weeks ago and the most recent poll two weeks ago, it is “old news,” so I am not sure how many people this Opinion Piece will reach. However, I felt it was necessary to address these defamatory allegations—and endorse Miya Atsumu personally.

This article has been edited for clarity and obscenity.

Atsumu wheezes—with laughter? With despair?—as his phone buzzes again with a text from Tendou.

Wakatoshi wrote much more, but it seems like the publication cut the nitty gritty. A shame.

It’s the last straw. Atsumu faceplants on the table. He understands that Tendou has seen his dick, but the idea of 1) Wakatoshi writing about the “curve of Miya Atsumu’s co*ck” or the “warmth of Miya Atsumu’s ass” or “how Miya Atsumu’s mouth feels like a vacuum,” and 2) Tendou proofreading every word before submitting it to The jacko*ff, makes Atsumu want to change his identity and move to Serbia.

“What’s wrong, Atsumu-san?” Hinata finally, mercifully, asks.

Without looking up, Atsumu slides his phone across the table to where his little and big, Hinata and Aran, are sitting. He considers what features of his face he’ll change with plastic surgery for his upcoming, self-imposed exile—he likes his eyes, but his nose could use more oomph, along with his cheekbones—until a bark of laughter interrupts his concentration.

Atsumu lifts his head off the table to glare at Aran. “S’not funny,” he says.

Hinata has a hand over his mouth, clearly trying to contain a laugh of his own. “I don’t know, Atsumu-san, it’s kind of funny.”

“Look,” Aran starts, “I’ve already toldja a thousand times I don’t wanna know about the details of your sex life, so we won’t be on this for long.”

“Your grandpa’s a prude,” Atsumu interrupts by stage-whispering to Hinata, who nods accordingly.

Aran tsks at them both. “Respecting people’s privacy and my own boundaries isn’t prudish, Hinata-kun. Don’t let your corrupt father convince you otherwise.” Hinata’s nodding intensifies, and Aran ruffles his hair approvingly. “Anyways, I don’t know why you’re so miserable, Tsumu. They’re defending you! Your knight in shining armor!”

“Yeah!” Hinata agrees. “Even though it’s kinda hard to tell whether the article is for the LOLZ or sincere”—Atsumu puts his head in his hands. He hadn’t even considered that angle—“the writer did their best for you, Atsumu-san!”

“It’s Ushiwaka,” Atsumu says, and Aran groans.

“I said I don’t wanna—”

“Well, then that’s even better, because you know it’s genuine!” Hinata insists, reaching across the table and peeling Atsumu’s hands off his face. He cups them gently, like one would hold a baby bird, fragile and small. “It’s at least distinct enough that it’ll gain traction and hopefully have people reconsider their stance on your totally undeserved reputation. But just remember, your family thinks you’re awesome, no matter what anyone else says or thinks.”

Atsumu could cry. He truly scored the best little in Omega 3.

“Call me awesome all you want, but it don’t mean you can vouch for how awesome I am in bed,” he points out.

“Are you offering to demonstrate, Atsumu-san?” Hinata says with a wink.

Atsumu feels himself flush to his roots. Hinata drops his hands, throwing his own over his mouth as he cackles. Aran squawks indignantly and thwacks Hinata on the back of the head. “No incest at the wholesome family breakfast!”

“Hole-some, indeed…” Hinata whispers, only to receive another smack from Aran as Atsumu laughs.

“I’m flattered, Shouyou-kun, but I wouldn’t do that to our good ol’ Tobio-kun.”

“We’re not dating!” Hinata insists, as he does every time Kageyama’s brought up.

Aran and Atsumu share a look.

Hinata’s face pinches in irritation. Atsumu takes a sip of his coffee, readying himself for what recent, objectively romantic event Hinata will cite to claim that he and Kageyama aren’t together.

Oh, the folly of youth.

Hinata ends up being right about the outcome of the article, but not in a good way.

Atsumu stumbles back up to his room, the smell of perfume on his collar. Luckily the frat house is quiet; with Alpha Beta Omega putting on their annual Come Hammered, Get Nailed party, Omega Three knew it would be a waste of resources to try to host their own tonight.

He throws open the door, fully planning on collapsing into bed and wallowing alone in his misery, when he locks eyes with Sakusa through the crack in his bathroom door. He’s got his hair pushed back by a patterned bandana, a light layer of something spread evenly over half of his face.

“You’re back early,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu grips his chest, groaning like he’s been shot. “Don’t remind me.”

“Okay,” Sakusa says and turns back to the mirror.

Atsumu huffs out a humorless laugh. “Callous bastard. That was clearly an invitation for ya to pry deeper.”

“I don’t want to know, so why would I ask?”

Atsumu steps on the heels of his shoes and kicks them towards the rack before walking into the bathroom. “S’called indulging a friend—”

“We’re not friends,” Sakusa interrupts.

“S’called indulging your bestie,” Atsumu says, and Sakusa scowls. Atsumu revels in the pinch of his brow for a second before continuing, “If it’s something the other person clearly cares about, then it’s only polite to at least act interested.”

“You are the last person on this planet who can lecture me about politeness.”

“What? I constantly indulge you. You think anyone else would follow your color-coded bathroom schedule?”

“You’re in the bathroom right now. During my scheduled time.”

“Yeah, and m’not taking a leak even though I feel like I’m about ta burst, so credit where credit’s due.”

Sakusa’s nose wrinkles, crinkling the hardened mask now spread over his entire face, as if visualizing what could be if Atsumu were three more drinks in with no inhibitions left. “Fine, then. Why are you troubled.”

“The f*ck are you, my therapist?” Atsumu cackles.

“You’re impossible,” Sakusa says.

“Okay, okay, I’m answerin’. I was just at the A/B/O party and I was—hey, shut that sh*t off! Can’t hear with the sink runnin’.”

“That’s the point,” Sakusa says before leaning over the sink and rinsing his face. Atsumu crosses his arms and waits for Sakusa to finish. When he finally turns off the spigot, he grabs the towel to his right to pat down his face. His eyes catch Atsumu’s in the mirror. “What? You said to act interested, so I asked a question. You didn’t stipulate I needed to listen.”

“f*ckin’ asshat. Whatever, I know you still have 36 steps left of this—”

“It’s only five steps total, which you’d know if you listened to a single word I said,” Sakusa grumbles, but Atsumu plows on.

“So I’m at the party for only, like, five minutes and I already notice a group of girls staring at me. That itself isn’t weird—I’m hot, they know it, I know it. But then they kept approachin’ me separately? Like, it was only when I was about to kiss the third one that I realized the other two were from that same group—don’t give me that look, Omi, I was not sober, okay—’nd it finally clicked that they weren’t interested in me, they just wanted to girl talk to each other about me. And obviously it’s ‘cause of all the damn jacko*ff coverage.” Atsumu exaggerates a sniffle. “Objectified by the female gaze…”

Sakusa gives him a slow once over. “You’re only wearing a safety vest and short shorts. You’re asking to be objectified right now.”

Atsumu covers his chest with his arms. “Not the f*ckin’ point, Omi-kun, God, your listening is so selective—”

“Besides, since when have you cared about why someone wants to hook up with you? Everyone in Omega Three knows you f*cked Akaashi-kun even though you knew he was into your brother.”

“I was showin’ him how much better a personality he coulda had for the same, attractive price,” Atsumu lies. “’Sides, at least with that I knew he was attracted to me ’cause I’m hot, not just to get some weird clout under his belt.”

“Your ego is so very fragile.”

Atsumu huffs. “And your heart is made of f*ckin’ ice. If there’s even anythin’ in there to begin with.” He walks over to his sink and grabs his toothbrush. “Anyways, I’m not standin’ for this no longer. Not worth it just to get my dick wet.”

“Miya Atsumu, age 20, body count 482, finally learns to have basic standards. Quite a headline, if you ask me.”

Atsumu sticks his toothbrush in his mouth. “I’m gonna spit in your f*ckin’ sink.”

Sakusa’s glare is deadly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Atsumu sticks out his tongue. “What, you rather I spit in your mouth?”

Sakusa’s face pinches like he sucked on a lemon, and Atsumu has to turn away to make sure he doesn’t spew spittle on the mirror—or, worse, Sakusa’s side of the counter.

“In your dreams, Miya.” Sakusa walks into his room and shuts the door.

“Y’always are, Omi-kun,” Atsumu drawls through his toothpaste.

“Don’t talk with sh*t in your mouth,” Sakusa says, barely muffled by the wood.

“Could be yer co*ck instead,” Atsumu taunts. The door opens again, and Sakusa’s hand slips through, shuts off the light, then slams it shut. With the lights off in Sakusa and Atsumu’s rooms, Atsumu’s left in complete darkness, unable to see his own hand in front of his face.

“Oi!” Atsumu starts blindly feeling to the left for the light.

“You’re lucky I don’t do something worse, like report you for sexual harassment.”

“It’s not my fault you want me so bad.”

Sakusa doesn’t dignify that one a response.

“Omi, please,” Atsumu begs, then hiccups. “I can’t drink all this by myself.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu shakes his arm. Their wrists are currently linked together by bright red zip-ties fashioned into handcuffs. “It kinda is your problem, ‘cause if you don’t remember, Mr. Fun Hater, we’re stuck like this ’til we finish the bottle.” Atsumu leans in, lowering his voice as he whispers into Sakusa’s ear, “If you wanted to be by my side forever, you coulda just asked.”

“The assignments were random,” Sakusa says, pushing his face away. He must be more tipsy than he’s letting on if he’s touching Atsumu’s face all willy nilly—which makes sense considering the two consecutive shots of vodka he took at the beginning of the party, claiming I’m not dealing with you all night sober.

Atsumu nuzzles his palm, and Sakusa’s face scrunches in disgust before dropping his hand. “And s’just your luck—hic—gettin’ paired with me.”

“Yes,” Sakusa agrees, “because I know you’re fully capable of drinking the whole bottle alone.” He grabs at the neck, fingers clasping over Atsumu’s own, and drags it up to Atsumu’s lips. “So get going.”

Atsumu groans, hiccups, then takes a big gulp. Champagne is one of his least favorite drinks—the bubbles make him hiccup like a menace, the drink itself tastes like sh*t, and it doesn’t even get him trashed—but it would be pretty pathetic if he couldn’t drink a whole bottle, considering he’s imbibed much worse. He glances at the bottle and frowns when he notes that it’s only a third empty.

“You’re killin’ me, Omi-Omi,” he says. Sakusa just takes another sip of his mixed drink.

Atsumu glances around the room from where they’re sitting on the couch. Their zip tie party is an exclusive affair: an annual brothers-only bonding activity, attendance required. Normally less people means less noise, but not for Omega 3. Pairings this year were as chaotic as they possibly could be: Bokuto is forcing Suna to twirl with him on the dance floor; Kageyama and Hinata are arguing about who can drink the bottle of champagne faster; Hoshiumi and Aran are fighting over the volume of the music, which consequently fluctuates up and down every few seconds.

Atsumu wishes that he had his phone to record Suna’s evident misery, but part of the party involved leaving their phones behind “to facilitate real bonding.” Ugh. Why are their council members such hags?

He turns his attention back to Sakusa, asking the question that’s been in the back of his mind for a while: “Why’re ya even in a frat? You don’t drink like a sailor, and you don’t like people.”

“Cheaper housing and resume clout,” Sakusa replies, and Atsumu laughs, because of course Sakusa’s reasoning is practical. “And who says I don’t like people?”

Atsumu gives him a look. “You. You tell me everyday how much you want to fling me into the sun or drown me in the bathtub.”

“That doesn’t mean I hate you,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu’s eyebrows lift to his hairline. It’s not like he thought he actually hated him, but for Sakusa to admit it is unexpected. He doesn’t drink that often; Atsumu needs to exploit this opportunity to the fullest.

“Let’s play a game,” he proposes. “Twenty questions, answer or drink.”

“I don’t like games,” Sakusa says.

“What’s your favorite color?” Atsumu asks, ignoring him and starting easy. He’ll have a drunk Omi on his hands by the end of the night if it’s the last thing he does.

“White,” Sakusa says.

“So you like the color of ji*zz—”

“Not how 20 questions works. My turn.” Sakusa’s brow pinches, lips screwing in contemplation. If Atsumu were more wasted, he’d say it’s cute. “What do you enjoy doing outside of volleyball, drinking, and hooking up with anything that breathes?”

Atsumu puts a hand over his heart. “Don’t slu*tshame. And hmm… if I said somethin’ like ‘reading classic lit,’ would that turn you on?”

“Not how 20 questions works,” Sakusa emphasizes. “And no. Classic lit has a lot to offer, but it is objectively boring.”

“True that. I guess I like the outdoors. Hikin’, climbin’ trees, touching grass, y’know?” Atsumu squints. “Or do you? Not sure I’ve ever seen ya outside the house or in class.”

“Connecting with nature is important for mental and physical health,” Sakusa says, clinical as always. “I walk on the campus trails at least once a week.”

Atsumu gasps. “Sakusa Kiyoomi, a tree hugger. I can’t even imagine it.”

“Let’s not go that far.”

“We gotta go together sometime, then,” Atsumu says. “‘Samu’s so busy with his boyfriend that he keeps dipping on me.”

“Your second choice. How flattering.”

Atsumu ignores him. “Who’s the one person you f*cked at STI?”

Sakusa raises his drink to his lips, and Atsumu hides a mischievous grin behind his bottle. Oh, yeah. It’s all coming together.

It goes on like this for another five, 10, 12 questions—who knows, Atsumu can barely count sober, much less tipsy. All that matters is that Sakusa has dodged about half of them, to the point that his cup is drained.

“Why are you… like this?” Sakusa asks, gesturing at Atsumu with his free hand.

Atsumu laughs. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“No. Answer me.”

Atsumu shrugs. “I like bein’ me. Why would I change?”

Sakusa frowns. “If we were on a game show, I’d hit the reject buzzer. Try again.”

“Just ‘cause you don’t like the answer doesn’t mean I didn’t answer, ya sh*thead!” Atsumu says, laughing. His eyes catch on the champagne bottle and notice that he’s almost done—only a sip or two left. He tucks it to his side, keeping it out of Sakusa’s sight. “So, when you said you don’t hate me earlier, what’s that exactly mean?”

He’s been holding back this one because, contrary to popular belief, he does understand the appeal of delayed gratification. He needed to make sure that Sakusa was well and truly gone before he asked. Atsumu’s not curious about the answer so much as if or how Sakusa will answer. He has to bite back a smirk as Sakusa’s brows furrow.

“You’re annoying. And insufferable and arrogant and too loud when you f*ck in your room and I hate that you get good grades while only half trying,” Sakusa says.

“S’the opposite of what I asked,” Atsumu grouses.

“Shut up. Let me finish.” Sakusa’s leg bounces rapidly as he pauses to gather his thoughts. “But you’re also entertaining and witty and refreshing. Not to mention dedicated to volleyball—though I’m not sure how you manage between all your… proclivities. Anyways, you have many flaws but most of them amuse me and your positive traits aren’t zero in number.”

Atsumu stares at Sakusa as he processes each word. “You really know how to make a guy feel good ‘bout himself,” he says, only half-sardonic.

Sakusa’s face wrinkles and he tries to take a drink from his empty cup. “My turn.”

Sakusa asks something that Atsumu pulls an answer for out of his ass as he considers his next move. Sakusa’s inhibitions are clearly lowered, but just how much can Atsumu push his luck? His eyes flit to the dancefloor, where a sizable crowd has gathered.

“‘Kay, my next question… Will ya come dance with me?”

“Not how 20 questions works,” Sakusa says, like the broken record he is. Atsumu doesn’t give him a chance to answer, hauling him up by the wrist and finding an open corner near the wall.

The song playing is an upbeat hip-hop track, and Atsumu sways, his shoulders bopping up and down to the beat. Sakusa stands there, stiff as a board, his trapped arm flopping along with Atsumu’s.

Atsumu shakes his arm furiously to jostle him. “C’mon, I know you can dance at least a little. Your DDR reputation precedes you.” He’s never seen it with his own eyes, but apparently Sakusa’s high school volleyball team had regular Dance Dance Revolution nights where Sakusa swept the competition, if Komori is to be believed—which Sakusa claims should never be the case.

“I’m going to kill him,” Sakusa mutters, as he often threatens when Komori is alluded to. It does seem to chip away a layer of ice, with Sakusa loosening up enough to be pulled along with Atsumu’s movements, his expression more resigned than that of a man’s on death row.

The song transitions into something slower and sultry. The bass seems to envelop the entire room, the walls thrumming with each pulse. Atsumu’s body melds to the rhythm, and he doesn’t even realize that his eyes have fallen shut until he blinks them open again.

His gaze flits to Sakusa, whose staring across the dancefloor. Suna’s back is pressed up against Bokuto’s chest, grinding back to the beat. Bokuto’s hands have slipped under Suna’s shirt as he kisses behind his ear. When Bokuto whispers something, Suna’s lips quirk up in a smile and he cranes his head back to lock their lips together in an off-center kiss.

Of all Omega Thee combos, Bokkun and Sunarin are the last people I imagined hookin’ up, Atsumu almost says, but the words die in his throat as his gaze flits to Saksua. His face is pinched in disapproval, but even in the low light, Atsumu can see the bright red flush on the back of his neck.

“Like whatcha see, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu can’t help but tease.

Sakusa blinks, lifting out of his trance. His scowl deepens as he says, “No.”

Calling Sakusa out on his lie would be too easy—not to mention, boring. No, Atsumu can work with this. Lady Luck’s been on his side all night; she won’t abandon him now.

“Then…” Atsumu muses, “Ya want a demonstration?”

“Ew, no. Don’t touch me.”

Atsumu figured that’d be his response. “Don’t mean you gotta be involved,” he says. Always a step ahead, he looks out over the dancefloor and spots his target. “Shouyou-kun!” he calls.

Across the room, Hinata doesn’t seem to hear him over the volume of the music. He sees the puzzle pieces click together in Sakusa’s head in real time, his eyes blowing wider. His scowl returns as Atsumu calls out again, his free arm reaching out to lower Atsumu’s gesturing in the air.

“Stop, ugh.” In a matter of seconds, irritation and ire and self-loathing all flit across his face. It settles on neutral, but Atsumu knows that he’s won this round. “It’s not like we—you can even—” Sakusa gestures vaguely between them. “We’re still tied together. Go finish the stupid bottle.”

“And risk your escape? Good try, Omi. Besides, that’s quitter talk,” he says, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Atsumu loops his fingers into Sakusa’s belt loops and tugs. Sakusa pitches forward, body pressing up, torso to thigh, against Atsumu’s. He feels Sakusa’s chest still as his breath stutters, feels the puff of warm air against his cheek.

Atsumu rolls his hips syrupy slow, and watches Sakusa’s eyes cloud over with arousal.

“Move with me, Omi,” Atsumu says, slipping a hand around to rest on the small of his back. Sakusa remains frozen, so Atsumu hugs him closer and grinds their clothed co*cks together. He sighs, dropping his head to Sakusa’s shoulder. He feels like he’s floating—a warm body against his own, the loud bass, and the alcohol flowing through his veins—and takes a moment to bask in it.

It’s hard to tell with how tight Sakusa’s jeans are, but Atsumu thinks that he feels his co*ck stirring. He’s surprised given how much Sakusa’s had to drink tonight. Another one of Lady Luck’s blessings, he muses.

Atsumu drags his nose up Sakusa’s neck, taking in a deep pull of his familiar scent. “Alright, demonstration’s over,” he rasps. “Time to show me whatcha learned.” Hooking his fingers back into Sakusa’s belt loops, Atsumu pitches his weight to one side. They spin twice before Atsumu’s back hits the wall; Sakusa's arm flies out to steady himself, caging Atsumu in.

Using the wall as leverage, Atsumu slots his leg between Sakusa’s and hikes it up. His hand finds Sakusa’s hip and tightens like a vice. “Come on,” he encourages, “just push forward a lil.” To Atsumu’s delight, Sakusa follows, though his movements are jerky and uncoordinated.

“Good,” Atsumu says, “but a lil slower, and follow the beat.” Sakusa stills completely, and for a moment, Atsumu thinks he’s f*cked up, pushed too far somehow. But then, brows pinched in concentration, Sakusa starts moving again, and dear God. Atsumu’s always known that Sakusa’s a quick learner, but only when he cares enough to try. He hadn’t expected him to follow through on this, but Sakusa’s commitment is clear in the calculated way he rolls not only his hips but his whole body, a hot line against Atsumu’s own.

“Oh, sh*t, yeah, like that,” Atsumu breathes. Sakusa’s pace falters a few times as he adjusts his timing, but his intensity only increases. He’s unquestionably hard now, and Atsumu can’t even mock him for it, because he is too.

Feeling control of the situation quickly slipping through his fingers, Atsumu’s hand moves down to Sakusa’s ass to give it a squeeze. Sakusa’s teeth sink into his lip as he lets out a harsh breath through his nose. Atsumu keeps his hand there, running over the curve and gripping at random until Sakusa’s careful rolls devolve into little ruts, no longer chasing perfection but pleasure.

Sakusa’s forehead falls to Atsumu’s shoulder, and Atsumu wastes no time kissing up the side of his neck. He latches onto the patch of skin behind his ear, sucking lightly before worrying it with his teeth, and as hard as he tries, Sakusa can’t cover up the moan that rumbles in his throat. Atsumu reaches up to guide Sakusa off his shoulder, tilting his head to press a kiss against his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—

Sakusa swallows thickly before pulling back, out of the reach of Atsumu’s lips. “Not there. Your breath smells gross.”

Atsumu feels a pang of disappointment in his chest, but he’s always been quick to adapt. He tangles his hand into Sakusa’s curls and tightens his grip, harsh enough to sting. “Alright,” he says, “but then no more hiding from you. Wanna see your pretty face when you come.”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses but his cheeks bloom a shade darker, belying his arousal. His hips don’t stop moving either, and it’s only a matter of time before his lips part, little wet breaths leaking through. His head sags forward, held up only by Atsumu’s grasp on his hair.

Atsumu vaguely wonders if Sakusa’s relaxing his neck on purpose, leaning into the pinpricks of pain. It has him wishing that his other hand could move freely. Would Sakusa come now if he spanked his ass?

When Sakusa’s eyes flutter shut, Atsumu gives him only a few seconds before he yanks on his hair. In a iron grip, Atsumu tilts his head back until those dark eyes are staring down the length of his nose into Atsumu’s own.

“Eyes on me, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs. Sakusa’s irises dilate, flashing with equal parts indignance and desire. “Mmm, just like that.”

“You—f*ck—” Sakusa’s cut off as he moans, body stringing whipcord tight before it snaps. Atsumu feels his co*ck jump, even through all the layers. His core and thighs tremble as his hand curls into the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt. When his eyes roll back, he doesn’t let them close, instantly refocusing on Atsumu. His dark irises burn with an intensity that pulls a tight exhale from Atsumu’s lungs.

“f*ck,” Atsumu swears, hiking his leg up even higher. Sakusa gasps, and Atsumu wishes that he could kiss him, drink it right off his lips, pull another out of his lungs. Since he can’t, he bites down on his lip and soaks up Sakusa’s steady gaze like an addict.

Atsumu’s not even the one coming, and he’s never felt this high in his life—with Sakusa’s full attention on him as rides out his org*sm against Atsumu’s thigh. His head spins, delirious with an undefined sense of victory.

It all ends too soon; with a deep exhale, Sakusa’s shoulders drop, like a puppet cut from its strings. Atsumu can tell that he’s finished, but he desperately doesn’t want it to be over.

“Omi, I got another question for you,” he says, keeping his voice more steady than he feels. “Your place or mine?”

Sakusa’s body tenses up again, and Atsumu’s grip on his hair reflexively tightens. Come on, come on, please—

“Not how 20 questions works,” Sakusa says, extra snooty, and Atsumu snorts. His heart drops out of his throat as his hand drops to Sakusa’s neck, thumbing over a mole. “When’s the last time you cleaned your sheets?”

Atsumu nearly drops to his knees and sends a prayer up to the heavens. “Yesterday,” he answers, fully honest because he’d finally ran out of underwear then and on a whim decided to throw his sheets in with it.

Sakusa squints dubiously. “You can check ‘em, if you’re so suspicious,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes.

Sakusa nods, like that was the right thing for Atsumu to say. He frowns deeply when he pulls away, and Atsumu’s not sure why until he starts waddling towards the couch. Atsumu’s grin stretches wider than the Cheshire Cat’s as he’s tugged along.

Sakusa grabs the nearly empty bottle of champagne tipped against the armrest and shoves it into Atsumu’s hands. Atsumu gulps down the last of it before grabbing his pocket knife and cutting through their ties.

“Why do you have a knife in your pocket?” Sakusa asks, his judgment palpable.

“Maybe I’m just happy to see you,” Atsumu says with a wink, causing Sakusa to cringe. “But it’s in the name, jackass—pocket knife. Lots of people do.” A hiccup bubbles up from his lungs, hindering his snark, but his point still stands.

Tucking the knife back into the sheath, Atsumu twirls it around his fingers as he walks towards the stairs. He doesn’t need to look back to know that, even freed from their bond, Sakusa is following him. A few wolf whistles follow their way as they climb up, and Atsumu flips the crowd off with his tongue out before he gets to the top.

When they reach his room, he throws open his door and flicks on the light.

“You don’t lock the door?” Sakusa asks pointedly, and Atsumu waves a hand over his shoulder.

“I normally do, but it was just the brothers tonight,” Atsumu lies. “Alright, go appraise the quality and threadcount of my sheets or whatever. If I brush my teeth, can I kiss ya?”

Sakusa’s already at the side of his bed, staring down intently. “Yes. Grab me a wet washcloth, too. I’m not doing this while covered in dried sem*n.”

Atsumu nearly trips over his feet as he scrambles into the bathroom. He knows that Sakusa is counting, so he sets a timer for one hundred and twenty seconds and scrubs the whole time, likely stripping the enamel off—but who needs teeth when he’s about to kiss the guy he’s been trying to hook up with for a year and a half? His half-hard co*ck twitches in his pants, because yes, he’s still sporting a chub.

He lets the sink run and warm up, spitting out the toothpaste and washing his hands before grabbing a clean washcloth from Sakusa’s drawers. He soaks it under the stream as he looks at his reflection in the mirror. He’s crusty, dear God. After wringing out the washcloth, he runs a hand through his hair, attempting to style it just a little. Sakusa’s inhibitions may be lowered, but his standards probably aren’t. Color-changing dancefloor LEDs reveal a lot less than Atsumu’s overhead lights.

“Okay, okay, go, go,” Atsumu tells himself. Every second that he spends in here isn’t a second that he’s making out with Sakusa Kiyoomi. He only lets himself have one more minor-freak out before squaring his shoulders and walking out the door.

The angle of the bathroom makes it so that Atsumu has to turn a corner to see his entire bed. But he can spot Sakusa’s pale feet at the foot of his bed, a stark contrast against his navy blue sheets. Atsumu’s heart rate picks up. Sakusa Kiyoomi. In his bed.

Atsumu turns the corner with a quip on his lips—“Who’s the one who needs to reevaluate their standards now, Omi-kun?”—but it dies in his throat.

When Atsumu said he wanted to sleep with Sakusa, he didn’t mean literally.

Atsumu walks closer, just to make sure that he’s not seeing things. But nope, Sakusa’s eyes are shut, his breath steady as he exhales against Atsumu’s pillowcase.

Atsumu can’t even be mad. He passes out after he comes all the time, and alcohol certainly doesn’t help.

Atsumu scrubs a hand over his face with a sigh. Well, Sakusa came in his pants while dancing with Atsumu in a very public place. Atsumu’s pretty sure he can convince him to have real sex in the privacy of his own room another day. Call it baby steps.

Atsumu reaches out to shake Sakusa on the shoulder but hesitates. He looks so peaceful, his dark lashes like delicate brush strokes against his flushed cheeks. Plus, he’s also naked, his clothes folded up into a little pile on Atsumu’s dresser. Atsumu can imagine the sullen pout on his lips upon being roused.

Mind made up, Atsumu pivots and reaches for his comforter at the foot of his bed, pulling it up to Sakusa’s shoulders. Sakusa lets out a relaxed little sigh before curling in on himself, his mop of curls all that remains poking out from beneath the covers.

Atsumu scowls. “You’re f*ckin’ lucky you’re cute,” he grouses as he heads to his bathroom. He pulls out his bottle of aspirin and a clean plastic cup. Filling the latter with water from the sink, he walks back into the bedroom and leaves them on the dresser, in Sakusa’s line of sight for when he wakes up. At least Sakusa will be waking up still covered in his own ji*zz, pissed about not brushing his teeth. Satisfied with the balance of good and evil in the universe, Atsumu shuts off the light and walks into their bathroom.

He’d be lying if he said his altruism didn’t have slight ulterior motives, but they’re not malicious: he just really wants to see Sakusa’s room. The bastard’s so cagey that he’s never let Atsumu in before. And Sakuas only has himself to blame for being a 6’3” athlete that takes up all the space in Atsumu’s bed; Atsumu has to sleep somewhere!

Atsumu chugs a glass of water before walking through the opposite door. He’s surprised that it’s not locked. Had this not worked, he was just going to steal Sakusa’s key out of his pants, but he won’t complain.

He flicks on the light and is met with… nothing. Sakusa’s space is as stale as his personality. The walls are empty, save for a single cork board pinned with a perfect grid of photos. That’s over his bed, though, so Atsumu decides to investigate his desk first.

It’s organized to a T, as expected, the pens in the cup somehow evenly distributed. Atsumu’s brows lift as he spots a glass bowl tucked into the corner, filled with water and lined with pebbles.

“The hell?” he mumbles, leaning in closer. A fish suddenly darts around, initially camouflaged amongst all the fake plant decor. A beta fish, if Atsumu saw correctly. “Not an omega fish, Omi? C’mon, man,” he says, laughing at his own joke. He hadn’t pegged Sakusa as an animal guy, but the tank is fastidiously maintained, not a streak on the outside or any mysterious floating substances on the inside.

“Hello, leverage, my old friend,” Atsumu sings, then turns his attention to his drawers, opening them one by one. It’s just school supplies, much to Atsumu’s disappointment. Sakusa’s not a virgin. He’s gotta have a sex toy box somewhere! Everyone does!

Shutting the last drawer with a huff, Atsumu pivots around and walks towards the bed. He climbs onto the mattress—these sheets are smooth as hell, what the f*ck—to look at the five-by-fivearrangement of photos pinned to the corkboard. A column of them are family, for sure: Atsumu would recognize that curly hair and those pouty lips so distinct to Sakusa anywhere. There’s another column dedicated to pictures of a large white dog, which Atsumu can only assume is his childhood pet. The next column is landscapes, the following his old volleyball team, and the final is…? Friends?

Atsumu squints and leans in closer. It has to be, given the variety of faces that are lacking the hair and the pout. Sakusa’s in most of them too; his face looks rounder, his eyes less full of defeat and despair. Must also be pictures from high school.

Atsumu’s about to call it quits— this bed is calling to him—when his eyes catch on one of the friend photos. It’s a group photo with twenty or so people, but when his eyes find Sakusa, his eyebrows fly to his hairline.

Because, at Sakusa’s right, a firm hand on his shoulder, stands Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Ushiwaka and Omi-Omi are high school friends?

This is even better than leverage.

Atsumu is about to be so, so annoying.

Chapter 6: Bokuto Koutarou

Chapter Text

“Sooo, that was a lot of yelling this morning,” Bokuto comments, trying to sound nonchalant and mostly failing.

He’s also trying to bench press 275 and failing that as well. His arms are shaking and he’s only halfway through his reps.

Atsumu, for his part, is doing nothing but straddling his own weight bench and watching the horrors unfold.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Atsumu responds, thinking back to how he’d woken up to Sakusa screeching at him. “Just Omi being dramatic, you know how he is.”

Miraculously Bokuto gets through his sixth press and exhales loud enough that the whole gym can probably hear. He sounds like a dying rhino.

“Dunno about that. He seemed pretty mad.” Bokuto’s arms finally lower again, then get stuck halfway on the way back up.

Atsumu waits a half-second to see if Bokuto needs help. He’s still fighting through it, determination in his eyes, so Atsumu decides a little encouragement is in order. “C’mon, man, you got this. Finish it out.”

The praise works and Bokuto gets through the rest of his press with a grunt. The bar clangs against the rack as Bokuto gives up on anything past seven and lets his arms drop limp at his sides. He’s sweaty but smiling, happy with his progress.

Honestly, it’s pretty f*cking impressive. “Damn, you’ll be hitting that consistently in no time.”

Bokuto lays there dramatically, still breathing hard. “Yeah, I’m getting there. God, I’m hungry. Wanna get some lunch?”

It’s not an excuse to keep hanging out. He’s sure Bokuto is actually starving. But Atsumu is pretty sure that Bokuto also wants to hear more about Sakusa bitching him out loud enough for their entire frat house to hear for twenty minutes this morning, his hangover headache be damned.

How literally any of Sakusa’s problems from this morning are Atsumu’s fault is beyond him.

Dried ji*zz in his pants?

Please, all Atsumu had done was encourage some dancing. Sakusa was the one who had passed out before washing up like a loser.

Almost puking this morning?

It’s not like Atsumu had made him drink that terrible mixed co*cktail after already having a few shots. They could have shared that bottle of champagne as intended and things would have been fine.

Those dried up tissues on Sakusa’s nightstand?

Well, what the f*ck was Atsumu supposed to do when Sakusa had blueballed him last night? Just lay down in his comfortable bed and count sheep until his boner went away?

Anyways. Leaving the house had been a good idea. Staying away for a few more hours seems like an even better one.

“Yeah, let’s go grab some food. You can pick where.”

Atsumu gets a little nervous on the walk to the restaurant. Bokuto keeps rotating his arm, trying to work through a tweak in his shoulder.

“It’s just a twinge,” Bokuto says. His words are firm, brooking no argument.

Not that Atsumu would bother arguing with Bokuto about this one anyway. Their trainer will have plenty to say that Bokuto won’t like if it is more than a twinge.

“Well stop f*cking twisting it around, at least,” Atsumu tells him, then thinks to add on for a more convincing argument: “You’re gonna end up hitting someone. The sidewalk ain’t big enough for that.”

Bokuto keeps his arms to his sides after that but Atsumu can tell there’s something up. He has a sixth sense for these kinds of things and he doesn’t like the creases etched into Bokuto’s forehead.

Food turns out to be an okonomiyaki place that Bokuto claims gives the biggest portions ever. Atsumu isn’t going to say no to that.

While their food is cooking but not yet ready, Bokuto finally gives in to his curiosity and starts with his questions. “So what’s up with you and Omi-Omi? I’ve never seen him like that before last night. He was like… touching you. With his bare hands. On purpose.”

Atsumu shrugs. “I’m hot. He could only resist for so long.”

Bokuto laughs, his big hand slamming down on the table in his mirth. The dishes rattle. “Yeah, yeah. We know. So what happened this morning then? Did he sober up and get pissed or something?”

“Something like that,” Atsumu answers, then slaps at Bokuto’s hand when he goes to poke at the food. It’s clearly not ready yet. Bokuto snaps his hand protectively back to his chest with a wounded look.

“Omi’s just a little extra work,” Atsumu continues. “Not that his prickly ass is even worth the effort. He’s probably terrible in bed.”

Bokuto grins at him. “Like you’d complain.”

That’s true. Atsumu likes sex. Even bad sex.

“Anyways. It don’t matter. Omi’s gonna need a decade to recover from last night.” He’d probably shaved off his pube hair this morning after realizing there was dried cum still all over him. He’ll be itchy for f*cking weeks as it regrows. “So maybe I’ll have another chance when we’re in our thirties.”

“Well that’s further than any of the rest of us will ever get. I really like his hair,” Bokuto comments, then makes a vague motion with both hands to indicate Sakusa’s curls. “I just want to touch it.”

“You should try it,” Atsumu says, holding back laughter just thinking about Bokuto trying to play with Sakusa’s hair and the resulting sh*tshow. “I bet he’d let you, You’re his secret favorite. I promise.”

Bokuto looks considering and nods. “Maybe. If he’s sleepy, he might let me…”

“I mean you could touch my hair anytime,” Atsumu tells him, gesturing at his own hair. It’s looking good today. Maybe because he’d styled it while Sakusa was in the shower (what else was he supposed to do when it was going to be an all morning affair, schedule be damned?) and it seems as though the humidity has done his parched locks some favors.

“Oh yeah?” Bokuto stares with interest, then frowns. “I dunno, it doesn’t look as fun. You use too much gel.”

“Look who’s f*cking talking.” Atsumu points at Bokuto’s hair, offended.

Bokuto shrugs, then winces at the movement. Atsumu tries his best to ignore the niggle of worry that bubbles in his stomach.

Worst case, it’s a small strain. He’ll need a couple of weeks of rest, at most. They’ve all been there.

It’s just that Atsumu knows how Bokuto gets when he can’t exercise. It’s not an experience he wants to repeat. He’s sure his frat brothers would agree with him.

Bokuto pokes at the food again. “You think it’s ready yet?”

Not really but Atsumu stops caring. If it distracts Bokuto from the pain in his shoulder, he’ll take it. “Yeah, dig in.”

Atsumu loves being right.

It just happens to suck, this time.

Sure enough, Bokuto gets put on the bench for two weeks with express orders to rest his shoulder. He’s only allowed limited exercise during practice, under the watchful eye of the team’s trainer.

Bokuto’s mood grows worse with each day that passes. First stubborn, then sharply frustrated before he finally melts into a morose kind of grumpy.

In other words, a week into the mandated rest period, Bokuto is an absolutely miserable excuse of a human being.

It’s not just the fact that Bokuto can’t play in their games or participate in practice. There are some people who are simply born with an excess of energy in their bodies and they need outlets. They are not meant for lazy weeks and days where they skip their five-mile run in the morning. Rain or shine, healthy or sick, it doesn’t matter—they need something to work through that excess energy.

Bokuto is absolutely one of those people.

He’s like a dog that needs exercise and Atsumu means that in the nicest way. You can’t just go adopt a Border Collie then keep them locked up in a studio apartment while you head off to work every day.

Which is sort of what happens on Saturday night when everyone filters out of the house for the night to take part in various social outings.

Technically, there’s no reason Bokuto can’t go too. He’s invited to all the same parties as the rest of the brothers and there’s nothing about his shoulder that should stop him from drinking a few beers and hanging out with some friends.

When Atsumu asks what his plans are (which seem nonexistent given his sweatpants, unstyled hair, and his ass parked in front of the TV), Bokuto just shakes his head. “I’m not really in the mood for going out, y’know?”

Atsumu can be kind of a sh*thead at times. He knows it and doesn’t deny it. He could leave Bokuto here on the couch like everyone else has (they’ve all tried to reason with him at some point or another over the past week without success). Atsumu has his own plans too and they certainly don’t involve spending a Saturday night at home.

The thing is… Atsumu is also loyal. And he likes a challenge, too. If Akaashi can manage to pull Bokuto out of his funk on occasion, there’s no reason Atsumu can’t be just as successful if he puts his mind to it.

So he puts his plans on hold and plops down next to Bokuto on the couch. He snatches the remote out of Bokuto’s hands. It’s easy enough to do considering Bokuto is staring at him with surprise. “Let’s at least watch something good.”

Bokuto’s surprise melts a little into irritation. His scowl would send someone smarter than Atsumu scurrying away, there’s no doubt. “I don’t need a friend to stay out of pity, Tsum-Tsum. That’s just gonna piss me off.”

Atsumu snorts in derision. “You think I do anything that’s not self-serving? C’mon, Bokkun. You can expect that kinda sweet sh*t from a lot of people but not me.”

“And you just want to spend your Saturday night watching TV with me?” Bokuto asks with an air of disbelief. For good reason, really. He’s not stupid.

“For a little while,” Atsumu agrees. “Then probably drag your ass out to go get some food with me. You’re paying.”

Bokuto looks unconvinced. He doesn’t argue though, just looks back at the TV screen with a scowl. Atsumu ignores the bitchy look on his face and keeps flipping channels. He finds a Tigers game that looks close, then shoves the remote down the side of the couch. It’s the only way to watch TV in the house in peace.

Normally Bokuto would be willing to scuffle for control of the remote, especially since he isn’t much of a baseball fan, but he doesn’t seem interested. His arms cross over his chest and Atsumu knows he’s about two minutes from storming off to his room and slamming the door.

“It’s only a couple of weeks,” Atsumu dares to say since he knows no one else has probably bothered to be as blunt. “And hell, ya only got a week left at this point. What’s the big deal? Just come out with me and have a good time tonight. There’s lots of fun sh*t going on. I won’t even ditch ya, promise.”

Bokuto heaves out a frustrated sigh. His fingertips dig into his thighs. “I just don’t feel like it.”

There’s an undercurrent of tension to the response that Atsumu isn’t quite sure he understands. There’s a piece of the puzzle he’s missing—one that’s integral to whatever is going on with Bokuto right now.

“Why not?” Atsumu asks, not ready to let the subject go just yet. “Going out would be a hell of a lot more fun than just sitting around. And it would take your mind off things too.”

“Drop it, Tsumu.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. Like something that pathetic is going to make him stop. He’d grown up with Osamu. Unless “drop it” was followed by a death threat and an ass-kicking, it was literally just an invitation to keep going.

“Nah, come on,” Atsumu wheedles, trying to keep his tone light. Bokuto isn’t as tough to break down as Osamu is and Atsumu doesn’t need to resort to violence just yet. “S’just the two of us now. Everyone else is out getting drunk. I know there’s something else going on. Just spill it. You’ll feel better.”

Atsumu means it too. If there’s something else going on with Bokuto’s mood, which seems more and more likely now that Atsumu thinks about it, he just needs to get it off his chest. Bokuto is not good at keeping secrets and trying to only makes it worse.

Bokuto doesn’t reply right away. It makes Atsumu think perhaps he’s getting somewhere. He waits as Bokuto stares unseeing at the television in front of them.

“Fine,” Bokuto eventually says. “It’s stupid though.”

“And I’ve never said anything stupid before? I’m sure it ain’t nothing special.”

Bokuto finally looks at him. He lifts his left arm, then drops it again uselessly. “I can’t jerk off. It makes my shoulder hurt too much.”

Atsumu laughs. He can’t f*cking help it. “You still got another hand, Bokkun.”

“I tried that! It just doesn’t feel right! It doesn’t work for me. I can’t help it.”

It’s not like Atsumu doesn’t get it. They’ve all got preferences and sometimes there’s just no changing it.

“Well you just got laid like… a week ago. I saw you and Suna.”

Bokuto groans, long-suffering and frustrated. Atsumu can now hear the sound for what it really is. This is the worst combination possible, leaving Bokuto with absolutely no outlets for his excess physical energy.

“Ugh, you know how he is. He likes to kiss and mess around until you’re all worked up and then dips. He thinks it’s funny or something, I don’t know.”

Atsumu has studiously worked to avoid rumors about Suna in the bedroom and this information is far too much for Atsumu’s brain. He immediately hates that he has this knowledge. Trust Suna to be a huge f*cking co*cktease.

“That sucks,” Atsumu replies, the entire picture of Bokuto’s misery finally clear to him. “Sorry, bud.”

Bokuto gives Atsumu a pathetic look. “Seriously, I’m dying over here. Everything’s working against me.”

“So you just need a hand, is that it?” Atsumu grins and wiggles his fingers in Bokuto’s direction. “I got two of ‘em still working.”

It might sound like he’s joking but Atsumu is serious about his offer. If he were stuck in Bokuto’s spot, he sure as hell’d hope that someone would be willing to help him out without making a big deal of it.

What’s a hand job between bros?

Bokuto shakes his head with a sad little twist. “Nah, I’d feel bad. Sometimes it takes me a while to finish, y’know?”

Atsumu isn’t quite sure what it says about his brain that hearing this revelation makes his gut swoop with new interest. He seriously loves a challenge.

It sort of makes sense, though. Bokuto is always racing to finish things, not typically the type to stop and smell the flowers or savor a nice moment. He wonders if maybe Bokuto is the same way with sex. Not taking enough time to get into the right headspace and then paying the consequences and becoming frustrated when his org*sm is just out of reach.

“I don’t mind,” Atsumu tells Bokuto. “But dinner just got more expensive. That fancy ramen place down the street. Extra pork. Two eggs.”

It’s the right thing to say apparently. Bokuto grins at him, some of his good mood returning. “It’s a deal. My room?”

“Mmm, not yet.” Atsumu scoots closer to Bokuto on the couch, close enough that he’s pressed into Bokuto’s side. He’s pretty sure no one else is home, though to be honest, he isn’t entirely certain everyone is gone. Not that he gives a sh*t if anyone sees him cuddled up with Bokuto.

He lets a hand rest on Bokuto’s thigh, squeezing gently. “We’ll go up in a bit. Game’s still on.”

Bokuto groans, making Atsumu feel more confident with his theory. He dips his head down, nosing softly at Bokuto’s neck before letting his mouth press a light kiss there. Atsumu can already sense the tension coiled tightly within Bokuto’s body after all of the frustration of the past week.

This won’t entirely fix things—not even close—but at this point a little relief will go a long way, he’s sure of it.

He scrapes his teeth along Bokuto’s neck before sucking gently. He’s just testing the waters, really. Bokuto, either extremely responsive or in possession of a very sensitive neck, moans like Atsumu already has a hand on his dick.

Atsumu, always weak for praise in the form of sexy noises, sucks harder and slowly glides his hand on Bokuto’s thigh up, inching closer to his lap. Bokuto’s hips rise up a fraction, eager for Atsumu to stop teasing.

He doesn’t though, moving to a different spot on Bokuto’s neck. Already he can see the fabric of Bokuto’s athletic shorts showing the beginnings of a bulge. Bokuto’s head tips back against the couch and to the side, making more room for Atsumu. His breathing is already messed up, coming out in little pants. He can feel the muscles under his hand jump whenever he makes even the slightest movement.

“Tsumu…” Bokuto sighs. “Feels good.”

A little zing hits Atsumu’s straight in the chest with those words. He’s barely even doing anything and Bokuto’s already this talkative?

He chuckles, trying not to give away how much he appreciates Bokuto’s comments. He kisses behind Bokuto’s ear, tracing the crease where leg meets groin. “What’s the score?”

Bokuto makes a garbled noise of confusion. His eyes flutter open. “What?”

“The game. What’s the score? Aren’t you watching?”

“Oh.” Bokuto draws in a shaky breath. “Three to one. Bottom of the seventh.”

Atsumu bites at Bokuto’s earlobe next, careful and testing. Bokuto’s chest rumbles with the groan he lets out. There’s a heat between their bodies now, a tension that feels almost tangible.

“Don’t tell me we’re gonna watch the whole game,” Bokuto pleads.

Probably not—but Atsumu doesn’t answer. Instead, he traces the back of his finger over Bokuto’s stiff length, completely filled out now. Bokuto whines at the attention, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Atsumu keeps teasing him like that. Kissing his neck, playing with him through his shorts, earning little sounds of enjoyment that go straight to Atsumu’s dick. As much as this is supposed to be a favor to Bokuto, thirty minutes or so of fun before they went and grabbed dinner, Atsumu’s starting to think he might need to rub one out too before they leave the house.

Bokuto only lasts two minutes at most into Atsumu’s prolonged foreplay. He turns his head towards Atsumu, a hand fisting into his hair and giving him an open-mouthed kiss, full of needy impatience.

It takes Atsumu by surprise, a small moan of his own escaping.

He’s made out with Bokuto at least once before, early on in his first year of college. He barely remembers it because they’d both been sloppy drunk while dancing at a party. Someone had interrupted them demanding Bokuto participate in a keg stand and that’s about all Atsumu can recall with any certainty.

It feels different now that they’re sober—it’s the desperation in Bokuto’s kiss that really gets to him this time. He cups his hand more firmly around the head of Bokuto’s co*ck, the heat of him apparent even through fabric.

Bokuto breaks away, his breathing shallow. Before Atsumu can process much else, Bokuto is already standing up, Atsumu’s wrist in his grasp. “C’mon, let's go.”

Atsumu could keep teasing if he wanted to but this is what he was hoping for anyway. He follows Bokuto up the stairs and into his room. It’s no messier than Atsumu’s room, really, so he feels right at home. Bokuto laughs a little when he turns around and his eyes dip down to Atsumu’s tented shorts. “I thought you were just lending a hand.”

“f*ck off,” Atsumu retorts but there’s no heat behind it. He steps forward into Bokuto’s space and lifts his shirt up, slipping his hands underneath to touch Bokuto’s stomach. He’s seen Bokuto shirtless hundreds of times but it’s different with his hands on him. His abs belong in a magazine. “You think I’m some kinda saint? Kiss me like that and of course I’m gonna get turned on.”

Bokuto grins, pleased with the compliment. “You can get off too,” he says. He bumps his hips forward until his hard dick is pressing right into Atsumu’s. “I don’t mind. Maybe we’ll both feel better afterwards.”

“One thing at a time,” Atsumu laughs, backing up and pulling Bokuto’s shirt off, careful not to hurt his shoulder. “I was in the middle of problem solving.”

“Whatever you say,” Bokuto answers but his smile is too big and he accidentally brushes his hand over Atsumu’s dick at least twice while Atsumu works to get the rest of Bokuto’s clothes off of him.

He’s seen Bokuto’s co*ck before but it’s always been the kind of quick glimpses that were impossible to avoid in the locker room—especially with someone as unconcerned with nudity as Bokuto.

Atsumu has never seen it like this before though: aroused and hard, foreskin pulled back a little and shimmering pre-cum at the tip. It’s an impressive size, enough that Atsumu can’t help but be a little envious.

Atsumu sweeps a quick glance over Bokuto’s nightstand, searching for lube and figuring Bokuto probably just keeps it out in the open.

He raises an eyebrow when he realizes what he’s looking at and then glances back at Bokuto. “Coconut oil? Please tell me that’s just your version of lotion and not what you jack off with.”

“Why can’t it be both?” Bokuto asks. “You ever try it?”

Atsumu shakes his head, reaching for the tub of coconut oil and unscrewing the lid. It’s virtually scentless and the second he gets a little scoop in his hand, it’s already melting into his palm. “Huh. Alright, I see what you’re saying.” He nods at the bed, pushing lightly at Bokuto’s chest. “Lay down for me.”

Bokuto lays back against a pile of pillows, half sitting up. Atsumu takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him, naked and stretched out in bed. There’s not a single inch of him that isn’t a model picture of athleticism.

Atsumu settles down next to him near his hip and wraps his lubed-up hand around Bokuto’s co*ck. It’s not sticky like lube is, instead leaving behind that shiny, oiled look Atsumu sees in p*rn. Nice. Maybe he should get some of this stuff himself.

Putting lube choices aside, Atsumu focuses on the mission at hand. He hasn’t forgotten what Bokuto said about taking a long time to finish, so he starts slow, paying attention to all of Bokuto’s little reactions.

And there are a lot of them. Just like downstairs, Atsumu finds that Bokuto is stupidly responsive, always moving his hips or moaning quietly or telling Atsumu that something feels good.

Atsumu increases the pace steadily, never quite giving Bokuto something fast enough to make him come.

“Tsumu…” Bokuto groans, long minutes into Atsumu’s work. “Do you always tease like this?”

“Stop thinking about it,” Atsumu tells him, squeezing the head of his co*ck a little harder on the next pass. “I do whatever I want.”

Bokuto makes a garbled noise that Atsumu takes to mean he likes being at the whim of whatever Atsumu decides is best for him. Still, Atsumu is an asshole so he speeds up the movement of his hand and watches Bokuto’s muscles tighten up. His breathing comes faster too as he finally gets what he wants.

Then Atsumu stops entirely, taking his hand away. Bokuto whines so loud that Atsumu is sure anyone at home can hear it. “The f*ck?” Bokuto says, not actually sounding that upset. His voice is raspy now, thick with arousal.

Atsumu laughs—he can’t help it. God, he loves f*cking with people. He wraps his back around Bokuto’s poor dick, swollen and red now, and starts again. “Hey, if yer gonna call me a tease, I might as well act like it.”

Bokuto curses at him but that just makes the victory even sweeter for Atsumu.

He starts again and realizes that his unintentional edging has done him a favor. Bokuto is ten times as desperate now and it seems like his previous concerns about taking too long to come are no longer going to be an issue.

There’s nothing that makes Atsumu want to come faster than being told he can’t. It’s no surprise that Bokuto is the same.

He keeps teasing because it’s fun and also because it’s hot. It doesn’t take long before Bokuto is squirming, heels digging into the bed and hands twisting into the sheets.

“I thought you said it might take a while,” Atsumu muses out loud. “Doesn’t really seem like it though.”

“It’s been a while,” Bokuto manages to say. He looks barely able to speak, his concentration entirely on the sensations assaulting him.

“Uh-huh.” Atsumu twists his wrist, enjoying the boost to his ego as Bokuto gasps, pumping up into Atsumu’s hand.

He can tell that Bokuto is getting close. There’s a restlessness to his writhing hips and clenching fists that Atsumu recognizes from his own tells. His abs are twitching too, glistening a bit from the oil.

Atsumu keeps his pace slow and steady. He knows that Bokuto can come from this—will come harder if he takes his time getting there instead of rushing. Bokuto whines from the back of his throat as his body continues to tighten up, slowly approaching the point of no return.

Atsumu’s own dick aches just from watching. Even without being directly touched, he still feels like he’s worked himself up as much as Bokuto.

“f*ck, Tsumu, I’m so close. Don’t stop this time,” Bokuto pants out, clearly worried Atsumu will pull his hand away again.

“I won’t stop,” Atsumu tells him. “Go ahead.”

Bokuto’s head snaps back, his hips pushing up unexpectedly almost making Atsumu lose his grip. Bokuto comes so hard that his release paints all the way up from his stomach to his neck. Atsumu feels a spark of pride light up his spine at the messy sight.

Bokuto goes limp after a moment, his body relaxing back into the bed as he heaves out a deep sigh. Atsumu can’t help but chuckle at the sight of him, finally pulling his hand away. “Damn, you’re looking less grumpy already.”

Bokuto hums in contentment, his eyes barely slipping open. “Damn, I really needed that. Thanks.”

Atsumu shrugs. “It was hot, so don’t worry about it.”

“Oh yeah,” Bokuto murmurs, as if just remembering Atsumu’s own arousal. “I owe you one.”

“Says the guy without a working arm. Remember how we got into this in the first place?”

Bokuto rolls his eyes, dismissive of Atsumu’s reminder. “I’ve still got plenty of other working parts. Here—” Bokuto shifts around slightly, reaching for another glob of his coconut oil and smearing it between his thighs. ”See, I gotchu.”

Atsumu could refuse… but why bother? Bokuto is offering and Atsumu has been a really good friend today. Besides, his last opportunity for a hookup had ended up with Sakusa drunk and asleep in his bed before Atsumu could f*ck him.

Not to mention Bokuto’s thighs were sculpted like a god’s. It would probably feel f*cking amazing.

“Alright,” Atsumu agrees, stripping down quickly. Bokuto stays on his back, his legs pressed together and twisted to the side. Atsumu palms at his ass, appreciating the view. Bokuto is his friend but it’s not going to stop him from dreaming about this sight again in the future.

The first press of his co*ck between Bokuto’s thighs is even better than he could have imagined, slick and warm and dizzying. Bokuto hisses in overwhelmed sensitivity when Atsumu thrusts harder the second time, the head of his co*ck bumping against Bokuto’s balls. It only fuels his hunger for more, and Atsumu continues at a rough and sloppy pace, bracing himself with his hands on Bokuto’s hips.

Bokuto’s legs are strong and he tightens the muscles of his thighs with what seems like no effort at all. It’s f*cking heaven, honestly.

Atsumu has been teasing himself just as much as Bokuto tonight and it doesn’t take him long to feel that familiar tightening in his stomach, the incredible high he gets right before an org*sm. He comes with a long groan, the relief hitting him hard.

Atsumu exhales harshly,, realizing that maybe Bokuto wasn’t the only one who needed a good f*ck.

He looks down at the mess of them… mostly on Bokuto, if he’s being honest. Atsumu grins boyishly at him. “Hey, mind if I use your bathroom? Omi’s got this whole schedule for ours and it’s still not my turn for another two hours.”

Bokuto reaches for a tissue and wipes off his own stomach ineffectively. “Yeah, sure, dude.” He sits up, then suddenly shoves at Atsumu’s shoulders hard enough that he loses his balance, falling back further onto the bed. “But I get it first!”

Well.

Good to know that things are back to normal then.

After they clean up, it doesn’t take much effort to convince Bokuto to leave the house. By the time they arrive at the new ramen place, Bokuto, thankfully, is mostly back to his more cheerful, energetic personality. The change might not last more than a day or two but at least it’s reset from where he was at.

There’s not a trace of awkwardness between them. Atsumu is incapable of shame and Bokuto seems indifferent to the fact that Atsumu now knows what his dick feels like.

“Damn, I guess I was more worked up than I realized,” Bokuto says when he’s halfway through his bowl of noodles. He rolls his shoulder experimentally, a tad gingerly still, but seems satisfied with how it must feel. “Maybe Coach will let me join light practice in a few days.”

Atsumu refuses to destroy the good mood and nods in agreement, even though he doubts it. “Maybe.”

Bokuto gives him a hard slap on the back, full of camaraderie and gratitude. “I mean it, Tsum-Tsum. Thanks for helping me out.”

Atsumu thinks it hardly felt like work, considering he’d gotten plenty out of it too. He definitely wouldn’t complain about a repeat. He can’t slap Bokuto on the back in return, so he settles for a light punch to his good arm. “Anytime.”

Chapter 7: Ukai Keishin

Chapter Text

“Why am I here?” Akaashi asks.

Atsumu tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, turtling behind his upturned collar. The wind is blowing something fierce on their way to the corner store, and it’s almost enough to make Atsumu turn back around. “’Cause ya owe me.”

Akaashi narrows his eyes, scanning Atsumu like he’s trying to crack into a vault. The attention would be flattering from anyone else. Unfortunately, Akaashi is dating his twin, and Atsumu would rather not give Osamu any more reason to commit fratricide. “For what?”

“You published the list. Duh.”

Akaashi sighs in exasperation. “I don’t feel guilty about doing my job.”

“Which is why ya still owe me,” Atsumu says. “Plus, it’s not like yer doin’ sh*t, waiting around the house for Bokuto. Consider this bondin’ with yer twin-in-law.”

“We’ve bonded enough already, thanks,” Akaashi says dryly as they walk up to the store.

Atsumu holds the door open, waving him inside first. “Ma says a good relationship takes constant effort.”

After a surprised pause, Akaashi goes in. “That’s sweet of her.”

“Samu and I definitely don’t take after her.” Once inside, Atsumu cranes his neck around, trying to gauge what section of the tiny store will most likely hold what he wants. “Anyway, I’ve been tryin’ to corner you fer days.”

“Have you.” The amount of doubt Akaashi can pack into two short words is impressive.

“Oh, f*ck off,” Atsumu says mildly, scanning each shelf of the beauty and hygiene products with care. “I got a major scoop for you.”

“I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

“You heard it here first then.” Atsumu whirls to face Akaashi, flinging out his arms as he pauses for dramatic effect. “Get this. Omi and Ushiwaka were friends in high school. Maybe even f*cking back then. I’m 90% sure they still are.”

The silence from Akaashi this time is strained. “I can see why you and Bokuto are good friends.”

“Oh, c’mon, man! It’s not a stupid idea.”

“Don’t yell in my shop, Atsumu,” Ukai yells from the counter. When Atsumu peeks over the shelves, Ukai still has his nose deep in a magazine, feet kicked up on the countertop.

“I’m having a crisis, and this place is dead,” Atsumu complains.

“You can have your crisis quietly or go outside.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu grumbles under his breath.

Akaashi clears his throat, drawing Atsumu’s attention back. “A college student having sex is hardly front page material.”

Atsumu stares at him, as if that isn’t the plot of this entire fanfiction.

Akaashi amends his statement. “It’s not news for one random college student to have a f*ckbuddy.”

“It is when it’s Omi and Ushijima. They’re not just any college students. They’re popular, antisocial assholes. The people need to know!”

“What’s this really about?”

Atsumu purses his lips as they meander toward the food section, weighing how much he wants Akaashi to know.

“The stupid list is finally almost done interfering with my life. One more dumb story to distract people and I’ll be free to sleep across campus without worryin’ someone’s gonna post something that gets me kicked off my scholarship.”

Akaashi’s gaze sharpens, mind no doubt churning through the likelihood of that actually happening. Admittedly, no one’s threatened anything outright to Atsumu, but Coach had pulled him aside after practice a few days ago just to ask him how he was doing “considering all the fuss.” Atsumu may have thought himself shameless, but it turns out he has at least one shame—and that’s his coach asking after his sex life.

“If you want my help, you have to come up with a better idea.”

Atsumu crouches, thoroughly checking every last product on every shelf in hopes of success. “I ain’t the creative one here. Cook me up somethin’ solid and I’ll give ya my blessing ta marry Samu.”

“We haven’t been dating that long.” Akaashi absently picks up a lighter shaped like a leg in a fishnet stocking, turning it over in his hands in thought. “Sakusa’s your friend, anyway. Why are you trying to throw him under the bus?”

“Omi’s been awful bitchy lately. Sometimes a good ol’ scandal’s what ya need to knock yer ego down a peg or two.”

“Didn’t seem to work on you.”

“That’s ’cause when I get knocked down?” Atsumu stands up with a cheeky grin. “I just get up again. Nothing’s ever gonna keep me down.” Before Akaashi can reply, Atsumu makes a beeline for Ukai and knocks thrice on the counter. “Hey, storekeep!”

Ukai doesn’t even look away from his magazine. “You’re here every other day, Atsumu. Just use my damn name.”

“Ya keep any coconut oil in stock?”

Akaashi sputters. “Did you bring me with you to buy alternative lube?”

The magazine crumples between Ukai’s hands.

“Yeah! I picked up the tip from Bokuto.”

“Just the tip, I’m sure,” Akaashi says, face contorting painfully.

“Ya tried it?” Atsumu leans a casual elbow onto the counter, fingers drumming on the wooden surface. “Stuff’s pretty nice.”

“I’m leaving,” Akaashi says, and does exactly that.

“Hey!” Atsumu shouts at his back. “We’re not done with our conversation!”

Ukai snorts as he tosses the magazine onto the countertop. “Did that to yourself, kid.”

“Keep yer comments to—” Atsumu cuts himself off. “Is that a new piercing?”

Ukai drops his feet, tilting his head to let the silver barbell cutting across his eyebrow catch the shop’s bright lights. “Nice, right?”

Nice doesn’t begin to describe the visceral reaction Atsumu’s having right now. It’s hard to tell if he wants one for himself or Ukai’s just gotten that much hotter and cooler. He also kind of wants to lick at it. Maybe roll it around his mouth a little. Not that he’ll tell Ukai about his rampant oral fixation reviving in full force right now.

Only after Atsumu has wrangled his willpower into place to stop from blurting out a desperate pass does he open his mouth. “When’d’ya get it?”

“Yesterday. Wasn’t sure if I’d end up getting one on my eyebrow or my tongue, but this won out in the end.”

“Tongue piercing,” Atsumu echoes helplessly.

Ukai hums. “The heal time of my last piercing was rough. Wanted something easier for now.”

“Your last…I’m guessin’ ya don’t mean the two studs in yer ear.”

“I don’t.” A faint smirk curls across Ukai’s face as he raises his eyebrow, the piercing glinting again in the light. “Are you okay? You look a little flushed.”

Atsumu is not, in fact, okay. The lights feel like they’re blazing above him, and his collar is suddenly too tight. “What was your last piercing?”

“Ah.” Ukai clicks his tongue in feigned annoyance, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he blushes. “You don’t need to know, kid.”

Ukai got himself a dick piercing.

Atsumu can just feel it—metaphorically, at least. He hopes it becomes literal, too. Most of his sexual bucket list has long since been crossed out, but this? This is definitely one of the few things left that he’s been gagging for.

Atsumu whistles long and deep. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me, you dog.”

“I don’t have any coconut oil, Atsumu,” Ukai says with finality, grabbing the magazine he definitely wasn’t reading for real in the first place and opening it up anyway. “Now get out of here.”

A strategic retreat sounds good to Atsumu—both to figure out how to crack Ukai and to relieve the urgent hard-on in his pants right now.

“Later,” Atsumu threatens.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ukai mutters back.

Sakanosh*ta Market technically doesn’t close for another 10 minutes, but Atsumu is too impatient to wait any longer to spring his trap.

And by trap, he means batting his pretty lil eyelashes ’til they damn well fall off, if that’ll convince Ukai that a blowj*b in the storeroom is in his best interests this fine evening.

Ukai’s tidying up the tables outside of the store when Atsumu jogs up and calls out a cheery greeting.

“Two trips in one day. The hell are you up to?” Despite his suspicion, a smile tugs at the corners of Ukai’s lips.

“There was somethin’ I noticed in the store earlier that I forgot ta show you.”

Ukai’s gaze goes flat, bullsh*t radar pinging loud and clear. Still, he doesn’t call Atsumu out. “Lead the way.”

Atsumu flourishes his hands towards the door. “You first. I insist.”

With a shake of his head, Ukai grabs his broom and goes ahead. Once they’re both inside, Atsumu scrambles to flip the open sign to closed and casts his hands along the door, searching for the lock.

Alarmed, Ukai grabs his shoulder and spins him around. “What the f—”

“I wanna see your dick piercing.”

Ukai blinks twice, then doubles over, laughing.

So much for easing him into the idea.

Atsumu scowls. “I’m bein’ serious, here.”

“I didn’t tell you I had one,” Ukai says between wheezes, slowly recovering his breath.

“It was obvious! I’m good at readin’ people!” Atsumu doesn’t think he’s being that unreasonable. “You don’t understand, I need ta see it.”

“Oh, I understand plenty, kid.” Ukai rests his hands over the broom handle and rests his chin on top. “Saeko warned me about you.”

The neurons in Atsumu’s brain are short circuiting again as he tries to dredge up a semblance of thought.

“You know Saeko. You know Saeko and she talked to you about me.”

“She may have told me a few stories. We’re more drinking buddies than friends, but we’ve kept in touch since our STI days.” Ukai pans down Atsumu’s body with a long, heated look. “Especially when it comes to our mutual interests.”

Cool. Cool cool cool. Atsumu is so calm and collected about everything Ukai is revealing. “Everything she said about me is true,” he brags.

Ukai hums neutrally as he rests the broom against a shelf. "You sure she only said nice things?"

"Saeko and I don't donice. Skilled and sexy are more our speed."

After a quick scan over Atsumu’s shoulder, Ukai lodges a hand against the door, just brushing Atsumu’s ear. His other hand slides behind the small of Atsumu’s back, nudging him a step closer. “Well, then, if you promise I'll get the same treatment."

The sound of the lock clicking shut behind him is the sound of victory.“I don’t say sh*t I can’t back up,” Atsumu grins.

Ukai grabs Atsumu's chin and tilts it up, running a thumb over his mouth. He pushes in just enough to catch some spit and drags down Atsumu’s bottom lip. “Saeko had pretty nice things to say about your mouth.”

“Just my mouth?”

Ukai shoves his thumb in entirely, massaging Atsumu’s tongue up and down. “Don’t waste all your begging on compliments. Thought you had a bigger goal in mind.”

Atsumu bites lightly, drawing a satisfied hiss from Ukai as he pulls away. “I have no problem getting on my knees for you in front of the glass doors to your shop, but I didn’t think you were that sorta kinky f*cker.”

Ukai rolls his eyes and drags Atsumu deeper into the store. As they pass the front counter, he releases Atsumu’s wrist with a murmured, “Hold on.”

“What’re you doing?”

Ukai grunts as he stretches himself over the countertop. “Cameras. If I’m gonna defile someone in my mother’s store, I’m not leaving evidence.”

“This can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

Ukai barks out a sharp laugh. “I don’t know what sorta sh*t you think I get up to, but I’m a momma’s boy through and through. I mostly wanna be left alone.” Half the lights flicker off as he fiddles with something beyond Atsumu’s vision.

Staring at Ukai’s ass in the half-light, knowing the cameras are off, gives Atsumu a brilliant idea.

“Listen,” Atsumu says, untying Ukai’s apron as he straightens back up, “the storage closet is great ‘n’ all for a quickie, I’d give it five stars on Yelp—”

“When the hell did you f*ck someone in my shop?!”

“—but the counter is a hell of a lot sturdier than the shelves back there.” Atsumu whips the apron off as quickly as he can without choking Ukai, with only partial success. “Lots more space, too.”

“I’m never going to be able to look at this counter again,” Ukai mutters. Still, he makes no move to push Atsumu away as he sinks to his knees and rucks up Ukai’s sweatshirt, mouthing at his abs, On the contrary, Ukai cards his fingers through Atsumu’s hair, holding him in place as Atsumu noses up and down Ukai’s happy trail.

“That’s a problem for future you.”

“At least get my jeans off before you slobber down the front of ’em,” Ukai says, resigned.

Once Ukai’s pants and boxers get kicked off and tossed somewhere in the direction of the office supplies and Atsumu finally gets a good look at Ukai’s dick, he can’t help his sharp inhale.

Not just one piercing, but two grace Ukai’s co*ck. The simple bars cross each other just under the head of his dick, the ends capped with small, silver balls that jut out enough to be easily noticed. Easily felt, too.

Atsumu doesn’t wait. He can’t, compelled by an oral fixation that demands he pull the tip into his mouth and suck hard.

Ukai yelps, hand reflexively burying itself into Atsumu’s hair again and yanking hard. “I’m sensitive, kid. Keep it light.”

“I’ll consider it,” Atsumu lies, then dives back in.

Of course, he does not let up. Ukai’s hardly the longest or thickest dick Atsumu’s ever had in his mouth, but exactly the right mouthful. Just thick and long enough for him to enjoy a challenge, but not so bad that he’s worried about choking badly or having his jaw lock or ache for the next two days.

He could spend ages here at Ukai’s feet, just warming this co*ck. As it is, though, he’s relishing the way these piercings feel with every bob of his head.

Atsumu laves his tongue down the underside of Ukai’s dick and back up, feeling the curve of the piercing bore down the length of his tongue and across the roof of his mouth, scraping across the soft sides of his cheeks as he takes his time to savor it with every inch of his mouth.

Each time he tugs at one of the piercings with just his lips, careful to keep it gentle, Ukai’s nails dig into his scalp. Every swirl of his tongue elicits a gasp or a groan, even from the smallest kitten licks and nips.

“The way yer actin’, you’d think you’d never gotten your dick sucked before,” Atsumu comments, licking away the precome from his lips. Ukai is leaking profusely, and the way it’s mixing with the metallic tang of the piercing is rewiring his brain a little.

“I’ll give a compliment where it’s due—you’re really f*cking good at this, kid.” The low light makes it hard to see just how disheveled Ukai is, but Atsumu’s pretty proud of what he can spot. A few strands of Ukai’s hair have slipped free from his headband, sticking to the sweaty skin of his forehead. A clearly misshapen patch of his sweatshirt is obvious, too, from where Ukai must have squeezed the fabric with a death grip instead of pawing even more at Atsumu.

“I’m blushin’ over here.” Atsumu absently pumps Ukai’s co*ck as he plots, trying to straighten out his sex priorities for the night. “How close are you to coming?”

“Why? You getting tired?”

“Like hell.” Atsumu winces a little as stands and feels his legs protest from kneeling in one position for a smidge too long. After a few quick stretches to gain feeling back in his limbs, he makes a beeline to the back of the store, tossing instructions at Ukai as he walks away, “Stay there. And take your sweatshirt off.”

“There’s nowhere to go,” Ukai’s flabbergasted voice chases after him.

Atsumu returns in short order with a half-drunk bottle of Pocari Sweat and an unopened box of lube.

Ukai catches the Pocari, despite the slack-jawed stare. “Atsumu, you can’t just—”

“You gonna ring me up for these?” Atsumu asks, ripping a side of the lube box clean off as he looks Ukai dead in the eyes.

“I’m too old for this,’ Ukai complains. Still, he opens up the bottle and chugs the rest of the Pocari.

“But yer also a delinquent,” Atsumu says as he hip checks Ukai to the side.

The apron covers a mere slice of the counter as Atsumu carefully smooths it down. Doesn’t matter much. He only needs it to keep from sitting his bare ass on the counter.

Atsumu crushes the lube’s packaging into a ball and tosses it into the recycling bin in a single, perfect throw. From behind his shoulder, the crumpled, empty bottle of Pocari arcs through the air and sinks in after.

“Nice shot,” Atsumu grins. He hops onto the apron, leaning back onto his hands so that he can spread his thighs wide, giving Ukai easy access to his ass. Thankfully, Ukai’s counter gives them plenty of room to work with. “C’mon, old man. Show me ya still got it.”

Ukai runs his hand over his face, pausing for one last time as he stares at Atsumu’s naked ass sitting so close to the cash register. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

“Dreams come true if ya try hard enough.” For good measure, Atsumu pumps his co*ck twice—just in case Ukai can’t tell he’s making a pun about being hard.

Ukai snorts, knocked out of his hesitation. He drizzles lube straight down Atsumu’s dick, letting it drip down as he coats his fingers liberally. He teases Atsumu’s hole, barely dipping in a finger as he massages wide circles that melt Atsumu’s tension away. Once he starts tugging and loosening in earnest, he wraps a hand around the base of Atsumu’s co*ck and just keeps it there in a tight grip as Atsumu slowly loses all rational thought.

When he tries to thrust up into Ukai’s grip, the man squeezes tighter, and drops a challenge. “You can sit still for me. You’re not coming until I’m inside you, Atsumu.”

Ukai drops little bits of praise as he works Atsumu open, soft encouragement that makes Atsumu strive to hold back even the smallest of thrusts. After what feels like an interminable time, Ukai finally slips his three fingers out and slathers his co*ck with lube.

Before Atsumu can position himself how he wants to get railed, Ukai grabs his ankle and yanks, sending Atsumu flat onto his back, head hanging off the counter. “Ukai, warn a guy!”

Ukai wraps his arms around Atsumu’s thighs, rutting against him in a way that lets the piercings pull at the sensitive skin of Atsumu’s balls. All pressure, but not where Atsumu needs it. “Try again, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid when you’re about to shove your dick into me.”

“Then get my name right.”

“Keishin, get the f*ck on with—” Atsumu breaks off as he feels the pressure of Ukai’s dick press into this hole, smoothly easing in. The heads of his piercings barely offer any resistance, but Ukai still patiently teases them back and forth, catching the rim with each pass and drawing a little burst of pleasure each time.

“Keishin,” Atsumu pleads.

“Use your words, Atsumu.”

Atsumu has already spent ages waiting for Ukai to finally slide in. He doesn’t have more words. Atsumu breaks the hold on his legs, wraps them around Ukai’s waist instead, and yanks him close.

Ukai hisses, forced to bottom out all at once. “That’s the opposite of what I told you to do.”

“Because it’s not what I want. Fast and dirty, c’mon already.” The pressure is exactly what Atsumu was hoping he’d feel, one of the piercings placed so f*cking perfectly that it drags across his prostate with each movement while the others offer a mock-ribbing sensation.

As Ukai starts thrusting lightly, his other palm roams around Atsumu’s body. Sticky lube spreads down his pecs, across his abs, into the crease of his leg, as if following a path of Ukai’s gaze, unable to look away. “You look so good like this, Atsumu.”

“I know.”

Atsumu yelps as Ukai pinches his nipple in response to his co*cky comment. “Stop being a brat.”

“Nah, it’s more fun this way.”

Before long, Ukai edges Atsumu further off the table until his ass is entirely supported by Ukai and nothing more. Like this, Ukai can finally drill into him the way Atsumu wants. There’s nothing nearby to brace himself with, so he settles for clutching at Ukai’s forearms, flexing under his hold with incredible strength.

As Ukai’s thrusts get haphazard, he wraps a hand on Atsumu’s co*ck, this time twisting with a firm, encompassing hand. It’s not long before Atsumu spurts hard, lines of come hitting Ukai’s chin and into some unfortunate knick knacks for purchase around the counter. Ukai f*cks him through the aftershocks, Atsumu’s sensitivity be damned, but he mercifully groans his own release soon after and collapses onto Atsumu’s chest.

“You’re helping me clean up,” Ukai says after a long moment.

“I’m not completely irresponsible, you know.”

Ukai pointedly looks at where he’s still plugging the come inside of Atsumu, then at their surroundings. “Yes, you are.”

“Okay, but not in this way.”

Ukai eases out of Atsumu, a trail of come slipping from his hole. The apron Atsumu had so kindly put down earlier is now somehow on the floor. “I need to grab better supplies. Be right back.”

Atsumu doesn’t have plans to go anywhere soon, so he keeps hanging off the counter until Ukai returns with another two bottles of Pocari and a packet of unopened wet wipes, in addition to the cleaning supplies.

“You’re a corrupting influence,” Ukai says, ripping into the brand new items.

Atsumu wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “They grow up so fast.”

Instead of actually forcing him to help clean, Ukai lets him sit on the countertop, kicking his feet. “Think Saeko’d be down for a threesome with us?” Atsumu asks from around a mouthful of candy, the chocolate bar an unfortunate victim of his far-shooting ji*zz. It still tasted good, though.

“She got herself a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, a bit thrown. “Guess her chase worked.”

“But if you want a repeat—in a bed, next time—I can do that.”

As if Atsumu could say no to that. “You got yerself a deal.”

Chapter 8: Oikawa Tooru

Chapter Text

Climate change is bad, objectively. Atsumu understands this. He does.

But when he can sit on the porch in short sleeves and shorts in the middle of December, he’s not mad about it.

A handful of Omega Three brothers are similarly taking advantage of the (Terrible! Awful! Horrifying!) situation and passing a blunt amongst each other. Atsumu’s not a smoker, but he likes to hang out, phone at the ready for someone to say or do something they wouldn’t sober.

Osamu takes a deep inhale from the joint, holding it in his lungs for a moment before exhaling a series of crooked rings.

“Weak,” Atsumu says.

Osamu scowls. “I still got one more puff.” He sucks in another hit. Atsumu is almost certain that he holds it in longer this time for the suspense, f*cking drama queen.

A horn blares through the air. Atsumu whips towards the sound reflexively. A car has pulled up in front of the Omega Three house, an old convertible painted a gaudy cyan. The top is down, so Atsumu can see the driver—some guy who looks about their age with wavy brown hair and giant sunglasses perched on his nose.

Atsumu’s jaw ticks. This man spells bad news, he’s sure of it.

“The f*ck, dude,” he shouts. “No need to blast our ears off.”

The prick turns to them, peeking at Atsumu over the top of his sunglasses. “You must be Atsumu-chan.”

Suna chokes mid-puff, hack-laughing the smoke out of his lungs. Atsumu feels his gaze harden. “What. Did you call me?”

The brunette tilts his head to the side innocently. “Atsumu-chan? Not a fan?” He taps his chin in mock contemplation. “How about Acchan, then? To match your cute li’l personality.”

Before Atsumu can stand up to deck the guy, Hinata bursts out of the frat house, nearly smacking Atsumu in the face with the screen door.

“Bwah!” Atsumu yelps, holding up his arm right before the handle nails him in the nose.

“Oikawaaaaa-san!” Hinata yells as he darts towards the car.

“Shouyou!” the guy greets as Hinata rips open the door. When he leans over the console to give him a hug, Atsumu’s eye twitches.

“Shouyou-kun, you almost f*ckin’ killed me with the door,” Atsumu shouts. “After everything I’ve done for you as your father…”

Hinata’s head swivels and his eyes go wide with shock, like he hadn’t even noticed them sitting there. “Sorry, Atsumu-san!” he shouts, though Atsumu can barely hear him over the rev of the convertible’s engine. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night…?”

The car is too far down the road for Atsumu to respond in any way that Hinata would catch, even if he projected at the top of his lungs. He settles for flipping off the vehicle, hoping that Hinata is too far away to see it.

“Blew a perfect string of O’s, by the way,” Osamu says. “Shame you missed it.”

Atsumu whips around and punches Osamu in the shoulder. “f*ckin’ liar.”

“He did,” Suna says, “I saw it.”

“If y’all think I’mma trust either of you, you’re dead f*ckin’ wrong,” Atsumu says. He crosses his arms, gaze drifting back to the road. “Who the f*ck is that Oikawa guy, anyways…”

“Hinata’s friend, duh,” Suna says, and Atsumu glares at him. “I know more, but I’ll only tell you if you’re willing to pay The Price.”

Atsumu waves a hand through the air. “Put it on my f*ckin’ tab.”

Suna whips out his phone, scrolling around for a bit before he says, “It’s up to 47, you know.”

“Whatever. Add it.” Despite popular belief, Atsumu doesn’t have zero sense of self preservation. He acknowledges that there’s a less-than-zero chance that Suna will cash all of these favors in at once and make him commit some kind of felony. It’s just that his sense of self preservation is less than his need for instant gratification—48 times over.

Suna taps on his phone before locking it and slipping it into his pocket. “Oikawa Tooru. Plays for Seijoh.”

Atsumu settles more comfortably into his seat. “Division Two scrubs—”

“Who are number one in their league right now,” Suna says. “Oh, and Oikawa is their starting setter.”

Atsumu’s fingers dig into his thighs. “What?”

Suna nods. “I haven’t been to their games, but I know they’re good. Could probably keep up with our school in a head-to-head match, thanks to Oikawa.”

“Why have I never heard of this prick, then?” Atsumu’s fuming. He knows that there’s no valid basis—other than his child’s abduction and setter pride—yet his next exhale is as jagged as glass.

“Because your head’s so far up your ass, you can’t see sh*t no more? Or is the sh*t all you’re seeing?” Osamu muses, rolling the blunt between his fingers.

As he moves to inhale, Atsumu smacks it out of his hand.

***

Atsumu is not driving half an hour to go to a Seijoh game. His time is precious, and he’s not that pathetic.

If he spends the next afternoon googling every article and Youtube video available online about Oikawa Tooru, though, that’s his business.

It’s not hard to find intel, given Oikawa’s reputation. Star setter in high school, star setter in college, it’s actually wild that Atsumu’s never heard of him before. Oikawa’s team never went to high school nationals, though, which may be part of it.

While he’s not a fan of the guy, he can’t deny that he has skill. His jump serves are clean—nearly as good as Atsumu’s. He’s been starting setter since his first year, bringing Seijoh from an average Division Two team to the top of the league.

Correlation doesn’t equal causation, Atsumu thinks while he continues searching. If the videos from Oikawa’s fan accounts weren’t gross enough, the snippets that he hears of Oikawa talking to his teammates make Atsumu want to throw up in his mouth. “I trust you all,” the motherf*cker says with his whole chest. What is this, grade school? Gonna give every scrub a participation medal?

“Oh, is that Oikawa?” a deep voice says behind him. Atsumu jumps, head whipping over his shoulder to meet Ushijima’s intent gaze.

“What’re you doing here?” Atsumu blurts out.

Ushijima leans back. “I didn’t mean to startle you, sorry. Kiyoomi-kun and I are grabbing dinner.”

It’s dinner time? Atsumu thinks as his gaze turns to Sakusa, who’s bundled up in six layers and a scarf, hands in his pockets.

“You’re not welcome to join,” Sakusa says, cold as the weather outside.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t gonna ask. I’ve got a life, you know.”

“Watching videos of a setter we’re not in the same league as definitely counts as a life,” Sakusa says.

“Oikawa is a competent setter,” Ushijima says. “It is wise of Atsumu to attempt to learn from him.”

“First of all,” Atsumu starts, “I’m not tryna learn sh*t from this guy, other than what his intentions are with my little. Secondly, how the f*ck d’ya even know him?”

“We are from the same prefecture,” Ushijima responds. “We played many games against each other in high school. I always told him that he should have played for my team instead—his skills were wasted at his school.”

Atsumu’s brows raise. He’s used to Ushijima being blunt, but he’s not used to him being a c*nt. That’s Atsumu’s job in the relationship.

“Figuring out his intentions with Hinata by watching volleyball videos,” Sakusa deadpans.

“Googlin’ one thing led to another. You know how it is.”

Sakusa leans in, squinting at the screen. “I mean, Oikawa-san is conventionally attractive. Hinata has never been one to turn down an opportunity.”

“But Shouyou-kun and Tobio-kun…!” Atsumu doubles over, his hand clenching into a fist over his heart. “We all know they’re end game, why is Shouyou—wait. Did you just call Oikawa attractive?” He sits up straight, giving Sakusa his best kicked puppy look. “Why do you never say nice things about me, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa leans away with a glare. “I don’t say anything I don’t mean. I’m doing you a favor.” He stalks towards the door. Ushijima gives Atsumu a long glance before following.

Atsumu slumps on the tabletop, forehead pressed against the cool wood, forced to reckon with Sakusa’s cruelty once again.

***

Atsumu’s still reeling from the force of the tequila shot when a familiar cyan convertible pulls up in front of the house.

“Huh?” he says. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“Saving the daaaay,” Hinata sings, skipping over to the car. Oikawa steps out, arms crossed. “Oikawa-saaan, thank you so much!”

Oikawa tips his nose up and, honest to God, harrumphs. “You owe me so much for this one, Shouyou-kun.”

“Anything, anything,” Hinata says, nodding fiercely. “Well, except money. I don’t have much of that. Come have some tequila.”

“At 8 in the morning…” Oikawa grumbles, following Hinata back to the table that they set up on the porch. It’s not until Hinata passes Oikawa a bright pink t-shirt that Atsumu’s caught up.

Atsumu gasps. “Why’s he runnin’ with us? He’s not even part of this frat!”

Hinata opens his mouth to speak, but Oikawa cuts in first: “Because the rest of your brothers are too selfish to help out li’l ol’ Shouyou-kun here. As the benevolent friend I am, I stepped up for the cause.”

Atsumu shoots Hinata a look, who just shrugs. “Oikawa-san agreed to sub in for Suna-san, who woke up with a cold.”

“And no one else in the frat coulda?” Atsumu asks.

“No one answered my texts! It was an emergency, and I knew Oikawa-san would be up!”

“Of course Sunarin would come up with some excuse to get outta this…”

Osamu shakes his head. “No, I checked on him this morning—sick as a dog.” He shivers. “I felt like I was gonna catch it from just walkin’ into his room.”

“Good, you deserve it.” Atsumu turns his attention to Oikawa. “Do not f*ck this up for us.”

Oikawa gives him a sour smile, though whether it’s because of Atsumu’s attitude or the shot that he just threw back, Atsumu couldn’t say. “I’ll have you know I’m the fastest runner on my team.”

“Doesn’t mean sh*t when your team’s cooked in the first place,” Atsumu says.

He watches with delight as Oikawa’s jaw tightens. Before he can swing back, Hinata bounces into the middle of the gathering, holding up a fistful of sticks. “Okay, guys, we gotta be there in, like, ten minutes so let’s draw lots.”

Atsumu turns his attention to the bundle clenched in Hinata’s small fist, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, no one draw 5 or I’ll beat your ass for it.” There’s only one Toasted Track Meet a year, and Atsumu saw how many people were in the audience when Aran crossed the finish line last year. He’s wanted the glory ever since.

“Oikawa-san, since you’re our guest,” Hinata says, “you draw first!”

“Huh?” Atsumu says. “Nah, he’s not even in this frat, he should be pickin’ last.”

Everyone ignores him. Oikawa rubs his chin with one hand as his other hovers over the sticks. His eyes flit between each, as if sensing their energy. After an insufferably long period of deliberation, he plucks one out, brings it to eye level, and squints. His lips curl up like the cat that got the cream.

“Sorry, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa says, not sounding very apologetic. “Looks like I’ve got the last leg.” He flips the popsicle stick outwards with his fingers, flashing the 5 at Atsumu in cruel mockery. Atsumu’s jaw opens and closes, comeback caught somewhere between his smooth brain matter and his last tequila shot.

Everyone else rapidly picks their lots before Atsumu has a chance to gather himself. Hinata doesn’t even let Atsumu draw the last one out of his fist; he looks at himself first before handing it over to Atsumu with a grin. “You’re runner number 4, that’s basically the end, Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu looks off into the distance lifelessly. “Why am I even here?” he says, looking up to the clouds, the sky, God’s home, waiting for His answer.

“Because you looove drinking alcohol before sprinting with your brothers at 8 in the morning on a Saturday to support a cause,” Hinata says, and if Atsumu didn’t know him better, he’d be tricked by his earnest tone, the twinkle in his eye. “Now, come on, guys, let’s get to the track before we’re late!”

“Yeah, with my brothers,” Atsumu grumbles, shooting Oikawa a glare. He’s following Hinata off the porch when a large hand smacks against the meat of his ass; he yelps.

“Come on, Atsumu-chan, you play volleyball,” Oikawa tuts. “Show your senpai some good sportsmanship, hm?”

Atsumu’s jaw ticks. “Oh, I’ll show you something, Tooru-chan.” He considers beating him into the ground like he promised, but decides that he’s way too intoxicated to pick a real fight. He raises his middle finger. “How’s that look, hm?”

Oikawa co*cks his head and smirks. “If you wanted to f*ck me, you could’ve just asked. Not that I’d say yes, but it’d be cute of you.”

He flips up his bangs before starting to strut off the porch. Atsumu nearly growls as he throws a wink over his shoulder. Before he can pounce and rip his throat out, Hinata calls, “Come on, guys, time’s ticking!”

Atsumu settles for giving Oikawa a seething glare. He spends the walk to the stadium praying to the God who betrayed him to make Oikawa fall flat on his face during the race. Hell, he might even trip him himself.

***

“Hello, everyone!” a girl’s voice booms over the football stadium speakers. “Thank you for coming out to our 13th annual Toasted Track Meet! So far, we’ve raised over $7,000 for charity thanks to everyone’s contributions.” A woo sounds across the field, with the enthusiasm usually received from drunk girls at concerts. “We’re so, so grateful for your support. But I won’t keep you long… we already know why you’re really here…”

She gestures to the teams, whose first runners are positioned at the starting line. “Six teams, but only one will come out victorious… Will it be our underdogs, Kappa Delta Rho?” The crowd gives a weak-ass cheer. Glancing at their members, Atsumu clicks his tongue. They aren’t winning sh*t if they can’t even woop properly.

“Or will history repeat itself for the boys of Omega Three, our champions for 4 years and counting?”

Atsumu, along with the other members of Omega Three and their fellow brothers and fans in the stands, let out a series of howls. Bokuto spreads his arms wide then thumps his chest, and the shouts crescendo. Hinata, their first runner, jumps in place, a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eye. Atsumu pounds on Bokuto’s back, guttural shouts going staccato.

When the noise finally ebbs, the announcer giggles. “Well, they’re certainly not going down without a fight. Alright, everyone, final reminder of the rules of the game: every team has 5 runners and you’ll be tagging off every 1,600 meters. Before anyone starts their laps, though, they have to shotgun a beer. 30 seconds will be shaved off the team’s time with each additional beer shotgunned. There are trash cans located at many points along the perimeter… please try your best to vomit in them instead of on the track. Please. We don’t need a repeat of 2012.”

The crowd lets out a laugh, even though no current students could have possibly been enrolled back then. Atsumu heard through the grapevine that some guy from Sigma Delta vomited on the track into a different lane, which led to a Beta Theta Phi brother slipping and eating absolute sh*t. He doesn’t know if it’s the truth or not, but if it is, it’s unfortunate that smartphones weren’t as prevalent. He’d’ve gotten a f*cking kick out of that video.

“Okay, thirty seconds until go time!” the girl says. “I’ll start counting down from 10. May the odds beer ever in your favor!”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, then abruptly stops when he realizes that Oikawa is doing the same. After schooling his expression, he shifts his attention to Hinata on the line. “Shouyou-kun, don’t flop!” he shouts.

Bokuto shakes his head. “Now that’s not very father-like, Tsum-Tsum,” he tuts. “Besides, he’s wicked speedy. He’ll be fine.”

“You ever heard of tough love, Bokkun?”

Hinata, too far away to hear their conversation, just gives a thumbs up. “I won’t let you down, Atsumu-san!” He says it so earnestly that Atsumu almost feels bad for being a bit of a dick. Almost.

“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!” It takes a couple beats for Atsumu’s inebriated brain to connect the dots and start shouting along himself.

“Six! Five! Four!” he and the Omega 3 participants chorus.

Hinata readies a pocket knife, hovering it over the can in his hand.

“Three! Two!”

Hinata’s grip tightens.

“One! Go!” A gunshot sounds, and Hinata drives the knife into the aluminum. Beer begins to spray, but Hinata raises it to his lips before the stream gets out of control. Atsumu starts screaming, and the rest of the crew joins in, shouting at the top of their lungs as Hinata chug, chug, chugs. When Atsumu hears Oikawa’s squeaky voice over the din, he raises his own voice. It cracks once, but at least it drowns out Oikawa’s.

When Shouyou’s finished, he tosses the can and the knife to the side and takes off. He’s slightly behind the members in Kappa Delta Rho and Sigma Chi, but catches up by lap 1. When he passes the frontrunner, Atsumu pumps his hands over his head. “That’s my Shoooouyoooou!” he yells.

Hinata finishes his segment a quarter-lap ahead of the next runner; he’s met with claps on the back that nearly topple him over. Bokuto grabs two beers out of the cooler and stabs them in quick succession, raising them to his lips at the same time. The stadium erupts in astonished gasps and cheers, and within ten seconds, the cans are clattering against the track as he takes the baton from Hinata and books it down their lane.

The other teams close the gap on Bokuto’s laps, but Omega Three planned for it. Bokuto has been working on his dual shotgun trick since the end of last semester; the 30 seconds that they gain from Bokuto’s ferocious gullet are more than enough to make up for the lost time.

Kageyama nearly topples over from the force of Bokuto’s smack on the back, but he manages to stumble to the start line with a beer, the baton, and knife in hand. His face pinches in on itself as he glares at the beer.

“Don’t be a wimp, Kageyama-kun!” Hinata shouts, practically vibrating on the balls of his feet. Atsumu doesn’t know how he’s standing after the three shots of vodka plus the beer, but Hinata has always been built different, especially when it comes to Kageyama. “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The chant picks up amongst the brothers. Kageyama’s glare is fleetingly redirected at Hinata before he stabs his beer and raises it high. He only sputters once as he chokes it down—quite the feat for him. He gives Hinata a final loaded glare before taking off.

“Bakageyama! You’re still holding the knife!” Hinata shouts, but Kageyama is too far away to hear him.

“He’s keepin’ it on purpose so he can stab you with it when he gets back,” Atsumu says, and Hinata jumps.

“Wha—!” Hinata yelps. “No, he’s just a dummy who forgot to drop it! He wouldn’t actually hurt me.”

“He’s ripped out literal clumps of your hair, Hinata,” Bokuto points out.

Hinata shakes his head. “That’s ‘cause I struggle too hard! He’s a real softy at heart, y’know? Softy-yama…” His tone is light, but his expression is clouded with doubt, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Softy…” Bokuto and Atsumu whisper dubiously to each other.

Kageyama tosses the knife back to their station upon the completion of his first lap; even though it’s sheathed, Hinata startles ten feet backwards.

Kageyama’s long legs carry him easily around the next two. Atsumu closes his eyes and breathes in deep as Kageyama starts his final lap, readying himself. He knows that Osamu is going to be timing him up in the stands; he has to do better than last year—his twin would never let him live it down.

Atsumu peeks open an eye to glance at the beer cooler to his right. He’s gotten pretty good at shotgunning in his year and a half in Omega Three, but he’s not sure an extra thirty seconds will be worth the agony while running the four laps. He… may have gone overboard at the pregame this morning. (It’s not his fault that Osamu woke him up by pouring absinthe into his drooling mouth.)

Atsumu makes his decision as Kageyama rounds the final corner. He clutches tightly at the cool cans, dimpling the aluminum with his fingertips. Bokuto hands him the knife, and when Kageyama makes it back to their group, Atsumu flicks it open with an ominous shink.

He howls, and his brothers howl back. Atsumu slashes the cans with the force of a serve. He takes them both at the same time—though he’s less skilled than Bokuto, half the liquid dribbling down his shirt or spraying across his face. The judges may decide that his imbibement only counts as one beer, but you miss 100% of the shots you never take, and everyone’s cheers are more than enough to push that thought to the back of his mind.

Atsumu finishes his drinks with a flourish, chucking the cans over his shoulder and then tucking the proffered baton into his waistband. He hears a thud and a bwah! as one of the cans hits Hinata, but he takes off in a sprint before he can be held accountable for his actions.

His gut flips as he rounds the first bend. His eyes drift to the nearest trash can, but he shakes his head. Every second is precious, and he can’t waste time vomiting. Shoving down the nausea, Atsumu pushes forward until all he can feel is the burn in his thighs and the wind in his hair.

He completes his laps at a steady clip, not gaining on any of the other competitors but not getting passed either. When he makes it back to Omega Three’s pitstop, he puts his hands on his knees, exhaling rough breaths through his mouth. His brothers cheer and clap him on the back, and Atsumu’s fingers dig into his skin as he bites his tongue, holding back the bile tickling at his throat.

He stands up straight to discourage gravity, his head only spinning a little bit. Someone clears their throat loudly behind him, and Atsumu turns around. Oikawa is holding out his hand, an irritating twist to his brow.

Atsumu knows what he needs to do, but Oikawa’s attitude makes him want to do the opposite. His lips twist into a sneer as he glares back.

“Come on, drop it,” Oikawa coos lowly. Atsumu just barely stops himself from baring his teeth, refusing to play into Oikawa’s hand so easily. Instead, he slaps the baton hard against Oikawa’s palm, the resounding thwack echoing in the air between them. Oikawa flinches but quickly recovers, fingers wrapping around the plastic and tugging it out of Atsumu’s hand. “Good boy.”

“Happy to show you my bite any time, Tooru-chan,” Atsumu says.

Oikawa hums dubiously. “How about when you’re not ten seconds away from vomiting on my shoes?” Atsumu’s expression sours. “Good effort, though. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to smile big for your fans at the finish line.”

Before Atsumu can rip his throat out, Bokuto wedges himself between them. “Kawaaaa, go drink! We ain’t got all day!”

Oikawa gives Atsumu a final grin before being ushered to the beer cooler. He squints and leans in closer as if reading the labels.

“Okay, which one tastes the least sh*tty?” Oikawa asks Hinata.

Hinata shrugs. “They all taste pretty awful to me.”

Oikawa’s nose crinkles. Atsumu would delight in his displeasure if they weren’t in the middle of a relay. “They’re all gonna taste like sh*t to a guy as pretentious as you,” he snaps. “Pick one and down it. Clock’s ticking.”

“Don’t go throwing around big words like that, Atsumu-chan. It’ll strain your little brain.”

He reaches into the cooler, fingers hovering over three cans before making a selection. Atsumu clicks but then bites his tongue, sacrificing his comeback that would likely distract Oikawa from drinking for the sake of the team. And Oikawa thinks that he’s the benevolent one.

Then Oikawa pops the tab of the can, and Atsumu nearly bites his tongue clean in half.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” Atsumu shouts.

Oikawa shoots him a look as he’s raising the can to his lips, like Atsumu’s the foolish one here. “I would be drinking my beer, if you didn’t so rudely interrupt.”

“No one f*cking drinks it like that.”

Hinata steps in between them, hands hovering placatingly over Atsumu’s shoulders. “Now, now, Atsumu-san, the rules don’t say you have to shotgun it. Oikawa-san can do whatever he’s most comfortable with.”

His attempts only exacerbate Atsumu’s irritation. “If he wants to be a puss* on his own time, that’s his business. But sippin’ it all prissy’s gonna cost us the damn race.” Atsumu shoulders past Hinata to get up in Oikawa’s face. “Aren’tcha on the volleyball team? Means you should know that sometimes ya just gotta suck it up for the team.”

Oikawa takes a slow sip of his drink while holding Atsumu’s gaze. “I’m sure you know lots about sucking, Atsumu-chan. Care to demonstrate?”

Atsumu’s final thread of patience snaps. He reaches forward, and Oikawa flinches back. But instead of snapping his neck, Atsumu’s hand plunges into the cooler, plucking out the same brand of can as Oikawa’s. “In your dreams. But I can show ya that, even like this, you could be doing a helluva better job.”

Atsumu pops the tab and brings the opening to his lips. He tips the bottom of the can to the sky, keeping his eyes firmly on Oikawa’s. The beer bursts into his mouth like the breaking of a dam, but Atsumu’s throat works fast enough to handle the rush.

Oikawa’s shock morphs quickly into ire; he raises his can to mirror Atsumu’s stance. The brothers around them make a noise of thrilled excitement, followed up by a chant of chug! Chug! Chug!

Atsumu crushes the aluminum under his fingers, urging the beer to flow out faster, and Oikawa raises his other hand to wrap around the can and follow with two times the force. Atsumu’s nearly chokes on his next gulp, but he keeps it from hampering his progress—he can’t lose to this f*cking fake-ass scrub.

Unfortunately, Oikawa throws his can on the ground first and begins running. Atsumu finishes his beer a second later and yells out f*ck! loudly in frustration. Oikawa turns his head over his shoulder, sticks out his tongue, and pulls down the skin under his eye. He blows a raspberry before turning his attention back to the track.

Atsumu’s feet move faster than his brain, pounding against rubber as his eyes burn into the back of Oikawa’s skull. Once his brain does catch up, though, it doesn’t tell him to stop, only urges him to catch up to Oikawa, to run faster, faster, faster—until he’s right on Oikawa’s heels.

Oikawa doesn’t turn around, but his gait widens, keeping the foot-wide gap between them. “Atsumu-chan, how cute of you to chase after me,” he says. “You could have just given me your number.”

Atsumu bristles. The anger fuels the blood pumping through his veins, his clip furiously picking up until he matches and then passes Oikawa. “Who’s chasing who, now?” he asks.

Oikawa huffs audibly. “Please. You couldn’t pay me to chase boys like you.”

“Shouyou-kun more your type?”

Oikawa laughs. “I’m done wasting my breath here. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He gains on Atsumu, bumps him a little with his shoulder. Atsumu stumbles, balance already precarious thanks to the speed of his sprint and the drinks in his stomach, and Oikawa overtakes him as he throws his arms out in an attempt to remain standing.

Atsumu staggers forward one, two, three steps, but his momentum keeps him miraculously upright. “Rotten f*ckin’ bastard,” he mutters, “I’ll show ya dirty.”

He’s a quarter lap behind, but there’s enough spite flowing through Atsumu’s body right now to power the campus’s electric grid. He ignores the burbling in his gut, the burn of his muscles, until he pulls ahead of Oikawa. This time, he does look over his shoulder, gaze meeting Oikawa’s narrowed one. Then, Atsumu spits, aiming between Oikawa’s eyes.

The glob hooks sharply in the wind, splattering on the collar of Oikawa’s shirt instead. Oikawa shrieks, pace faltering as he belatedly tries to swerve out of the way. Atsumu’s cackle is loud enough to break the sound barrier. Nothing more delightful than schadenfreude.

Atsumu’s original plan (that totally existed in the first place) was to hop off the track once he goaded Oikawa into running a little faster, but it’s long forgotten as he passes the line that signals the start of his next lap. Even if him crossing the finish line won’t seal the win for Omega Three, the satisfaction that he’d get from beating Oikawa there is more than enough incentive to keep running.

He maintains the spring in his step for lap two and three, brain drunk on the idea of victory. But adrenaline can only take a plastered college student far. By the start of the fourth, Atsumu can feel himself flagging, cramping stomach weighing him down like a shackle. It’s not long until he can hear Oikawa’s footsteps behind him, heavy and foreboding like an encroaching storm.

Atsumu’s eyes flick to the finish line half a lap away. He clenches his teeth, willing his body to pull its sh*t together; the tension seems to only stiffen his joints further. Oikawa pulls up next to him. Atsumu can see his feral grin out of the corner of his eye.

Atsumu doesn’t know who starts it first, but the next second, he’s screaming at the top of his lungs, Oikawa splitting his eardrums at his side. Atsumu pumps his arms faster, pushes his lungs harder, screams impossibly louder as they approach the finish line—twenty steps, ten, five, one—

The crowd roars as they cross over, neck and neck. Atsumu lets out a final shout, voice cracking, before his body finally gives in to the exhaustion. He manages to somewhat gracefully fall to his knees, palms smacking the rubber track as he fights the urge to succumb fully to gravity. Oikawa stops next to him, managing to keep his feet on the ground by folding over and resting his hands on his knees.

“I totally—crossed—first—” Oikawa says between pants.

Atsumu looks up and spits, “f*ck—no, ya—didn’t—”

Oikawa takes in a deep, steadying breath. “I did—but since you’re”—he coughs—“a sore loser, we confirm my victory—with the photographer.”

Atsumu curls his fingers into tight fists. “f*ckin’ fine then.” He inhales roughly, willing himself to stand on the exhale.

As gravity drops his stomach back to his toes, Atsumu realizes that he’s made a grave mistake. Saliva floods his mouth, and he makes it two steps before he can’t hold back any longer. Luckily, it’s like the trash can was waiting on the sidelines just for him; he collapses into its sweet basin as bile erupts down his throat.

Atsumu’s just recovering from the first bout of nausea when he hears Hinata yell Oikawa-san! and someone throws themselves over the trash can next to his.

A maniacal grin splits across Atsumu’s face, broken only as a fresh stream of vomit expels itself from his body. He doesn’t know how long he spends doubled over, puking up a morning’s worth of poor choices, only that once he’s done, he lays down on the prickly astroturf and passes out.

***

Atsumu jolts awake to the sound of a slamming door. He groans and turns onto his side, his tongue thick and sour in his mouth.

“What time is it?” a voice says to his left, thick with sleep.

“f*ck’f I know,” Atsumu says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He opens one and peers around; he’s in the Omega Three house’s living room, splayed out across one of the couches. His gaze flits to the television. “12:47,” he says.

The other voice just grumbles, and Atsumu finally looks over to the source. “Th’f*ck are you still doin’ here?” he asks. “Check the damn time yourself.”

Oikawa curls further into a ball on his respective couch, eyes shut tight. “Can’t. Not wearing my glasses.”

Atsumu huffs out a laugh. “Should be callin’ you Oikawa-jiji, I see…”

“You won’t be calling me much of anything once I drown you in the bathtub,” Oikawa says, but the threat lacks punch given his fetal position.

“If you wanted to shower together, you coulda just asked,” Atsumu taunts. “S’the only way you’ll ever get someone naked, I’m sure.”

Oikawa’s pout deepens. “There’s no point. You spit on me. I’m never going to feel clean again.”

Atsumu grins. “I’m sure Omi-kun’s got some industrial-grade bleach that’ll melt off your skin. He’s prolly even got a routine down after having sex with me that you could ask him for.”

“I’m not sure who ‘Omi-kun’ is, but I can’t trust his judgment if he slept with you.”

Before Atsumu can defend his or Sakusa’s integrity, Hinata walks in from the back porch, eyes bright as he spots them. “You guys survived, yay!” He scrambles into the kitchen, returning with two full glasses of water. “Sorry, I was gonna put these out on the coffee table for when you woke up, but I got swept up in the afterparty. How’re you guys feeling?”

“How are you partying outside?” Oikawa asks, taking his glass. “It’s winter.”

“Os don’t get cold,” Atsumu and Hinata say in unison.

Oikawa sighs and tips back his drink.

“I’m doing fine,” Atsumu says to Hinata, ignoring Oikawa. “Mouth tastes like sh*t, but ‘least when you puke up all the alcohol, you don’t end up with a hangover.”

Hinata nods sagely. “For sure! We’re celebrating our 5th year of victory in the back if you guys want to join, but I’m gonna guess…”

Both of them shake their heads. College students may not have much of a sense of self preservation (see: this morning), but even they have their limits. Drinking more the same day after throwing up and passing out crosses the line.

Atsumu suddenly remembers something very significant. “Tooru-chan, did you ever get the pics from the photographer?”

Oikawa shakes his head with a grimace. “Unfortunately, I’m a sympathetic puker.”

“Then why’d’ja f*ckin’ come today? If it weren’t me first, someone was bound to puke eventually.”

Oikawa’s narrowed gaze shifts to Hinata. “Some people can be very convincing. And by that, I mean lying pieces of trash who tell you ‘the relay’s not as bad as it sounds, Oikawa-san!’”

“It’s not lying if you just don’t include certain details!” Hinata says, grin a touch too wide.

Oikawa’s glare sharpens before it falls. “I owed him, anyways. This makes up for all the debt,” he says. Hinata nods vigorously.

“We’re even, Oikawa-san,” he says with a salute.

“Well, I guess I’ll reach out to Gamma Phi for the pics,” Atsumu says. “I’ll rub my sweet victory in your face the next time ya come to visit.”

“D’awwh, Atsumu-chan’s inviting me over again,” Oikawa says, batting his lashes.

Atsumu scowls. “More like I know I’m stuck with you as long as Shouyou-kun’s my little, and unfortunately I like him more than I hate you.”

“Atsumu-chan, you wound me. No need to be such a sore loser.”

“I won, you f*ckin’ c*nt—”

Hinata holds his hands up placatingly before they can get further into it. “Oikawa-san, is there anything you need before you leave?”

“Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

Hinata frowns. “I don’t think I have one, sorry.”

“Mouthwash?”

“People use that?” Hinata asks.

Oikawa pinches the bridge of his nose. Atsumu bites back a laugh. A pregnant pause settles between the three of them. As it stretches out, he decides to be the bigger person (literally, as Hinata’s big.)

“I got an extra toothbrush and mouthwash, unlike this useless first year.” Atsumu stands to trap Hinata under his arm and give him a wicked noogie. Hinata squawks like a bird and struggles in Atsumu’s grip, but Atsumu mastered the art of headlocks thanks to Osamu.

Oikawa squints. “This feels like a trap.”

“Then drive home with puke breath, like I care,” Atsumu says, rolling his eyes. “I’m going up to brush my own teeth, follow at your own unfounded risk.”

“Unfounded, he says, like he didn’t spit on me!” Oikawa hisses, but stands to follow.

“You pushed me first. Start sh*t, get hit.”

They bicker until they get to Atsumu’s room. He hands Oikawa a packaged toothbrush that the bastard still inspects like Atsumu tampered with it somehow. Atsumu ignores him in favor of running his own brush under the water and popping open his toothpaste. When Oikawa steps towards Sakusa’s side of the bathroom, Atsumu catches him on the sleeve and yanks him back.

“Omi’ll kill me’f you spit in that sink,” Atsumu says between bubbles. “We’re sharin’.”

“You know, they say sharing is caring, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa says. “No need to be so subtle. Everyone falls for my charm eventually.” Atsumu rolls his eyes as Oikawa squeezes a dollop of toothpaste onto his brush. Right as he raises it to his lips, he stops, eyes growing wide. “Wait, you had sex with your suitemate?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Why not?”

Oikawa shakes his head. “How uncouth. I hope you’re not corrupting Shouyou-kun with your poor parental modeling.”

“Says you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you gonna tell me to my face you’re not sleepin’ with Shouyou-kun? Really?”

Oikawa jerks back, aghast. “What? No! Where’d you get that idea?”

“You’ve started driving from f*ckin’ Seijoh to visit him, like, all the f*ckin’ time. Y’all drive off into the sunset and I don’t see Shouyou-kun ‘til the next morning. What the f*ck else am I supposed to think?”

It’s Oikawa’s turn to laugh. “There’s this super cool thing called friendship, where you can have a close relationship with someone and keep it in your pants. Not that you’d understand that concept, Mr. Fratcest.”

“Hey, it’s not fratcest unless you sleep with someone in your family tree.” Atsumu has to think a moment before saying, “Which I haven’t done.”

“Give it time. Anyways, Shouyou-kun and I are friends from high school. You should know him well enough by now that you know he 1. constantly needs a change of pace, so I bring him to Seijoh parties, and 2. is pining with his whole soul for Tobio-kun, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “But that’s exactly why he’d go sleep with someone else—’cause he doesn’t even realize he’s caught feelings.”

“Contrary to your vulgar beliefs, I’ve been gently pointing him in the right direction, but you can’t force a horse to drink or whatever.” Atsumu spits in the sink, hoping that Oikawa can still see him nod. “Also, I have a partner. Well, kinda. It’s complicated. But Shouyou-kun knows him, so he would never even think about coming onto me.”

Atsumu can hear the invitation in Oikawa’s voice, so he shuts the door in his face. “I don’t wanna know,” he says before knocking back a shot of mouthwash.

“It’s been on and off since high school,” Oikawa continues, voice dripping with woe. As a selective listener himself, Atsumu can’t blame him. “I don’t know if we’re on or off right now. Either way, I haven’t gotten my dick sucked in ages, Atsumu-chan. My will to live is hanging on by a tether.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh before taking the mouthwash bottle from Atsumu and dumping some in his mouth. Atsumu goes from swishing to gargling. Oikawa soon follows, bubbling duet filling in the silence between them.

Atsumu spits and wipes his mouth on his towel before saying, “Hope it snaps. Also, Tooru-chan admitting that he’s got no game? I shoulda been recordin’.”

Oikawa glares at him, though the severity is tempered by the chipmunk-like puff of his cheeks. He crosses his arms then spits into the sink. “It has nothing to do with lack of opportunity… unlike a certain someone.”

Atsumu scowls. “That little snitch…”

“Told you you’re a bad influence.”

“I’m doin’ just fine, thank you very much. Didn’t you just accuse me of fratcest?”

“Yeah, but now I’m thinking you only stooped that low because it was the only option you had left…”

“Didn’t they teach ya out in the boonies not to believe everythin’ you hear?”

“Mmm, yeah, they did,” Oikawa says, leaning in closer and tilting his head to the side. “But they also said it’s important to vet our sources.”

Atsumu’s brows lift as he regards their proximity. Is Oikawa flirting with him, like, for real? They were both obviously just posturing with the taunts from earlier today, but right now, they’re alone.

Atsumu swallows, eyes dropping to Oikawa’s coy smile. His gaze flicks back up to Oikawa’s, a tempting swirl of chocolate-brown. Atsumu’s always had a sweet tooth.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

He reaches up to grab the front of Oikawa’s shirt, tugging him closer.

“I didn’t even know you could read,” Oikawa breathes. They’re close enough now that Atsumu can see his pupils dilate in real time, can see each hair of his immaculately groomed eyebrow lift in invitation.

Atsumu’s bedroom door slams against the wall with a bang, snapping them both out of their trance. “Oikawa-sannnnnn,” Hinata yells. By the time he peeks into the bathroom, Atsumu has dropped Oikawa’s collar and put distance between them. “Oh my God. I’m so, so sorry. But we’ve been in the backyard this whole time and so I only just realized that your car—”

Oikawa’s eyes widen in frenzied fear. “Did someone hit it?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing that extreme.” Hinata’s eyes flick to the side and widen, as if registering something. “Oh, actually, Atsumu-san’s window points towards the front of the house—” Oikawa is shouldering Hinata out of the way before he can finish his sentence. Atsumu follows more measuredly behind, curiosity piqued.

Oikawa’s hands rise to cover his face, eyes peeking through his fingers as he looks out the window in horror. Atsumu’s gaze drops to the gaudy blue convertible. At first, nothing seems out of place until he glances lower—

Atsumu barks out an incredulous laugh. “Oh my God. We have a Traffic Patrol?”

“Apparently! And Oikawa-san doesn’t have a parking pass, so…”

“They booted my baby?” Oikawa shrieks. He spins on his heel and runs out the door, as if needing to see it up close to believe it. Atsumu and Hinata follow him down, clomping like a stampede of wildebeests on the way down the stairs.

The boot on the tire is even more glaring up close, painted a bright orange that rivals Hinata’s hair. Oikawa runs over to the windshield where the ticket sits under a wiper and lets out a wail. “Two hundred dollars? Have they no sympathy for broke college students?”

“Given your $70,000 car, I think you got the money to pay a $200 ticket,” Atsumu muses.

Oikawa shoots him a glare. “I got it second-hand as a birthday present from my parents.”

“Then just have Daddy’s money pay it off,” Atsumu scoffs.

Oikawa collapses over the hood of the car, resting his forehead on his folded forearms. “Can’t. I’m responsible for all future costs.” His head shoots up to glare at Hinata. “Why didn’t you tell me to park somewhere else?”

Hinata raises his hands up next to his face placatingly. “I didn’t realize you needed a pass to park on campus! I don’t have a car!”

“Don’t you pay for a parking pass for your campus?” Atsumu asks. “Why wouldn’t the same apply to ours, dipsh*t?”

Instead of answering, Oikawa lets out a sharp, defeated sigh. “It’s over for me. Tell my sister and nephew that I love them… Wait, sh*t, what time is it?”

“1-ish,” Hinata says. “Why?”

“sh*t. I have a thing at 2 I need to be back at Seijoh for.”

“The campus police spend most of their day f*cking around on their phones in their office,” Atsumu says. “I don’t think there’s any chance in hell you’re gonna get their attention that quick.”

“sh*t, sh*t, sh*t.” Oikawa starts pacing. “I guess I could call an Uber, but I don’t want to spend more money if I have to pay off this sh*t.”

“Just bat your pretty lashes at the officer ‘nd I’m sure they’ll take off at least $100,” Atsumu says.

“Now is not the time to be flattering me, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa huffs, though his lips twitch as if repressing a smile.

“Hey, Atsumu-san, don’t you have access to the van keys?” Hinata asks, face scrunched in deep contemplation.

Atsumu sees where this is going and he does not like it. “Nope.”

“You lie!” Hinata squawks. He puts a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder and looks up at him with those big, brown eyes. “Atsumu-san, please! I’d take him but I am not sober. Do you want me to get a DUI? Or worse, die in a car crash?”

“As long as you take Tooru-chan down with you,” Atsumu answers.

Hinata’s bottom lip juts out and, oh my God, that’s not f*cking fair. “I’ll owe you biiiiig time, Atsumu-san. Please? As the best big ever?”

How can Atsumu say no to that?

He puts a hand on Hinata’s head and ruffles the curls with his fingers. “As a dutiful parent, it is my duty to fix your mistakes. But I better come back to a take-out order from WcDonalds, or I may disown you.”

Hinata nods vigorously. “Got it. Thank you, Atsumu-san!” He gives Atsumu a rib-crushing hug.

Atsumu turns his attention to Oikawa. “I’ll go walk down to the lot and grab it, you stay here and call the number to organize a pick up time tomorrow or whatever.”

Oikawa squints. “This feels like another trap.”

Atsumu gives a stiff grin. “If I wanted to kill ya, I already would have.”

***

Atsumu honks as he pulls up to the house, delighting in the way that Oikawa jumps a little. Oikawa gives Hinata a hug before walking towards the van from the porch. The hinges creak as he throws open the door. When he steps up to the passenger seat, the van sways a little, bending with his weight. Oikawa’s face wrinkles, and Atsumu laughs.

“Sorry it’s not up to your usual caliber, Your Majesty.”

“I would expect nothing less from you,” Oikawa shoots back, settling in his seat and shutting the door. “God, I wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. This has to be a death trap.”

“You’ve got an old car, too, so you know they’re hardier than they look,” Atsumu says, slamming on the gas. The van lurches before it gradually picks up speed, the pedal as sensitive as Ushijima’s feelings.

Oikawa inspects the windowsill before resting an elbow on it, propping his cheek against his fist. “A D1 volleyball team has to have more money in the budget than this.”

“We do, but we spend it on equipment that improves our play.”

“Can’t improve if you die on the way there!”

“Life’s not fun without some calculated risks,” Atsumu says. “If you were so pressed, you coulda asked Shouyou-kun to order you an Uber.”

Oikawa sighs. “No, I’m not that evil. He didn’t know, and I should have checked.”

“‘That evil,’ he says, implying he is at least some degree of evil,” Atsumu muses.

“What? No. Who said that? I am an angel who’s never done anything wrong.”

“Gaslighting on the first date? Who knew you’d come on so strong…”

“In your dreams. I’d never go on a date with a jerk like you.”

“But you’ll try to kiss me in my own home? You deviant.”

“Excuse you, you’re the one who pulled me closer.”

“‘Cause you’re the one who gave me bedroom eyes.”

Oikawa sniffs. “I was testing your resolve. Didn’t take you to be a homewrecker, Atsumu-chan, but you proved me wrong.”

“Can’t wreck a home with no foundation, Tooru-chan,” Atsumu sings, rolling up to a red light. He glances over at Oikawa, who’s giving him a sour glare.

“Ouch! You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”

“Oh, I know lots more than that,” Atsumu says. “If only your car hadn’t gotten booted, you coulda seen for yourself.”

“You’re saying I still can’t?”

The tempered heat of the moment in the bathroom suddenly sparks to life, air erupting into flame.

The light changes in Atsumu’s periphery, forcing his focus back to the road. Neither of them say anything as the van sputters forward to merge onto the highway.

Atsumu keeps his eyes on the road as the van picks up speed. He can feel Oikawa’s gaze on him, trailing from his cheek to his neck to his shoulder and down his arm. As it rests on his hands, Atsumu’s grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“Relax, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa says, and Atsumu’s eyes dart down to the speedometer, which has somehow climbed to 85. With a long exhale, he relaxes his grasp as well as his pressure on the gas.

“Faster I get you to Seijoh, faster I don’t gotta deal with you,” Atsumu tries, but the excuse sounds weak even to his ears.

Oikawa hums, doubtfully amused. The note sends a lick down Atsumu’s spine. He pulls in a deep breath, willing his body to cool it. He’s pretty sure that driving horny would be just as bad at driving drunk.

Oikawa doesn’t make it easy, though. His gaze lingers, as if daring him to return it. In the few moments that he does look away, he’s texting someone rapidly on his phone, smirk pulling at his lips. Atsumu has no idea what the conversation is about, but Oikawa’s proven his shamelessness by now—he could be giving a friend a play-by-play of the way that he’s torturing Atsumu in the car. Telling them all the things he’d ask Atsumu for or what he would do to Atsumu if he weren’t in the driver’s seat, responsible for keeping them both alive.

Atsumu grits his teeth, beating his imagination back with a mental stick. He wonders if Oikawa’s such a brat because he wants to get a beating, have his fat mouth stuffed with a fat co*ck until he can’t speak, can’t breathe—

“This one’s my exit,” Oikawa says, snapping Atsumu out of his head.

Atsumu signals to pull out from the fast lane. “I can read, thanks,” he says, like he was paying attention to the roadside signs.

“Yet to be proven,” Oikawa says, sending off a text before dropping his phone into his lap.

With nowhere else to release his frustration, Atsumu floors the gas. They zip across three lanes at once before slipping into the exit lane with a meter to spare. Atsumu’s lips pull up into a sad*stic smile as he chances a glance at Oikawa, who’s clutching the assist handle for dear life, shoulders up to his ears.

“Where to from here?” Atsumu asks.

“Um,” Oikawa says before coughing a bit and straightening his spine. “A couple blocks straight, then turn left at the light, and it’s a straight shot from there.”

“Great,” Atsumu says, then hooks a sharp right into an abandoned parking lot. The car screeches to a halt; Atsumu puts it in park and cuts the ignition. He reaches across the console and yanks Oikawa forward by the collar, eager to pick up where they left off.

Their lips meet at an awkward angle, mobility limited by their seatbelts. Atsumu scowls before unclicking his, hearing the pop of Oikawa’s in tandem. This time, Oikawa meets him properly in the middle. Oikawa’s hands grip at Atsumu’s forearms appreciatively before trailing up to his shoulders and tangling in his hair.

The kiss is heated and messy and ravenous, more a battle of teeth than the press of lips. Atsumu’s head spins from the lack of oxygen, focus fixated on Oikawa’s stuttered breaths more than his own.

The first touch of their tongues invites a different kind of rush, not opening so much as tearing the floodgates off their hinges. Atsumu gasps as Oikawa yanks on his hair, hard enough to tilt his head back and part his lips further. He relishes in the warmth of Oikawa licking into his mouth, lets him believe for just a second that he has the upperhand.

Before Atsumu pulls away, he surges forward, the saliva under his tongue slipping out of the corners of his mouth. He watches the strings form and stretch to connect their lips, as they snap and dribble onto Oikawa’s skin, dripping down to his chin.

“My spit ain’t so bad, after all, isn’t it?” Atsumu purrs.

“Context matters, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa says, a beat late. “And it’s extremely reassuring to me knowing that you brushed your teeth.”

“My mouth’s still plenty dirty, I promise,” Atsumu says. “I can show you if we move to the back.”

Oikawa looks down at Atsumu’s lips as he bites his own. “You don’t wanna perch in my lap like a pretty little princess?”

Atsumu scoffs. “There’s no way you top. No way in hell.”

“Rude!”

“But am I wrong?”

Oikawa crosses his arms and, honest to God, harrumphs. “None of your business.”

“It’s actively my business—we’re about to f*ck.”

“With what lube?”

Atsumu glances around before clicking his tongue. Despite his well-documented slu*ttiness, it’s not like he just carries lube around in his pockets. He promises to live up to his reputation in the future.

“Get out,” he says in lieu of an answer. As much as he’s curious about the preferences of Schrodinger’s bottom, they can have plenty of fun without lube.

“Suddenly, I’m glad we’re in this death trap,” Oikawa says. “If you’d left a come stain on my seats, I’d’ve killed you.”

“Well, these seats’ve seen a lot worse than come stains,” Atsumu says, glancing out the window before pushing open his door.

“Ugh, don’t say that, I don’t wanna know,” Oikawa says, voice muted as he exits on his side. He circles around to Atsumu’s so that they can both climb into the back, the van shaking as the doors slam.

Atsumu lays down across the row of back seats, one foot pressed against the window, the other planted on the floor. He pats his lap, and Oikawa straddles his thighs as best he’s able to in the cramped space.

“Sitting so eagerly on my command… Who’s the dog now?”

Oikawa tips his nose up as he glares down at Atsumu, giving off the energy of a haughty poodle. “The more you talk, the more I’m convinced your mouth isn’t good for anything else.”

“Happy to prove you otherwise.” Atsumu’s hand slides up to cover Oikawa’s ass, giving it a squeeze. “Turn around."

“I don’t think anyone in their right mind would do that,” Oikawa says, lifting his hips so that Atsumu can pull his waistband down. His co*ck springs out, and even half hard, Atsumu can tell how long it is. (Atsumu has more girth, though, which matters more.) “But my psych class taught me that being horny makes us stupid and impulsive.”

Oikawa climbs off Atsumu’s lap to settle in the opposite direction, eyes facing Atsumu’s feet. Atsumu reaches around to fist Oikawa’s co*ck, gives it a long, rough stroke. His other hand snakes under the hem of Oikawa’s t-shirt, skirting across the plane of his abdomen. “Take off your shirt.”

Atsumu rubs his thumb right over the slit of Oikawa’s co*ck as he does as he’s asked, precome beading out of the tip with each pass. Oikawa arches forward, pronounced back muscles bunching under his pale skin. “Stop teasing, Atsumu-chan,” he whines, voice strained.

“I’m not teasing—I’m being benevolent,” Atsumu says. “But if you want a dry ass hand job, then that’s your prerogative.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be using your mouth? Shutting the f*ck up, even?”

This time when Atsumu strokes him, his palm glides over his co*ck like butter. With his other hand, he tugs at Oikawa’s hip, urging him to scoot back. “Patience is a virtue, Tooru-chan.”

“As if you, of all people, can lecture me about virtue,” Oikawa scoffs.

“I’m both benevolent and virtuous.” Atsumu blows a hot breath of air over Oikawa’s hole. “And also really good at eating ass.”

He shuts his eyes and laps at Oikawa’s hole. As expected from the bottom in denial, Oikawa is shaven and smooth; Atsumu’s tongue glides across the skin with little resistance, lifts off with an ease that spurs him to do it again and again. Oikawa lets out a shocked noise that evolves into a groan.

“Only two of those words are in the Bible,” he says, the strain in his voice like music to Atsumu’s ears.

Atsumu starts slow and steady with teasing licks and kisses that leave Oikawa squirming. When he picks up the pace, Oikawa doubles over, fingers digging into Atsumu’s thighs for purchase. His hips jump back and forth, as if he doesn’t know whether he wants to lean into or away from Atsumu’s touch. Not that he can escape—either grinding his ass into Atsumu’s tongue or his co*ck into Atsumu’s fist.

A smirk pulling at his lips, Atsumu lets out a pleased hum. Oikawa is coming undone by his hand. The rush goes straight to his head.

Then, Oikawa yanks down Atsumu’s pants, pulls out his co*ck, and swirls his tongue around the tip.

Atsumu’s pace falters, the shock of wet warmth pulling a moan from his lips. Oikawa laps at his slit, and Atsumu can feel himself leaking against his will.

“You bastard,” Atsumu says, sensing spite with every press of Oikawa’s tongue. Oikawa ignores him and sinks lower. Scowling, Atsumu thrusts his hips up. Oikawa gags but doesn’t pull off, drool running down Atsumu’s shaft. “Watch it,” Atsumu taunts. “You’ve puked enough today.”

Oikawa pulls off and sucks in a deep breath. “Given your… modest endowment, I’m not too concerned, Atsumu-chan,” he says, more evenly than Atsumu would like. He goes down again and sucks this time, and Atsumu’s never felt so mad and turned on in his life. The combination is alarmingly hot.

Objectively, he knows that this isn’t a competition, but subjectively, he needs to beat Oikawa’s ass into the ground and claim victory, so he gets back to work. He draws back his hand and digs all ten fingers into Oikawa’s cheeks to spread him wider, raking his nails across his skin. Oikawa moans, but the vibrations travel straight down Atsumu’s co*ck and he has to bite back a moan of his own. Meanwhile, when Oikawa takes Atsumu’s co*ck all the way down, Atsumu’s grip tightens on his ass, breathing a hot exhale over his hole.

It’s the ultimate catch-22, a spiraling feedback loop—Atsumu can’t do anything to Oikawa without it feeding back into his own pleasure and vice versa. It’s only a matter of minutes before the tight pressure of Oikawa’s throat brings Atsumu to a knife’s edge. Atsumu wishes that he could see it: the tears wetting Oikawa’s lashes, the obscene stretch of his lips. Atsumu would reach forward to feel his tip snug in his throat, then bully his co*ck in just that bit deeper to block his windpipe.

“f*ck,” Atsumu swears, snapping himself out of the dangerous headspace. Oikawa hums, cupping Atsumu’s balls in his hand before giving a rough squeeze. Atsumu nearly bites his tongue off as he resists giving into the resulting rush of heat.

With every ounce of focus left in him, he reaches forward to grab Oikawa’s dick. Oikawa smacks his hand away and slowly shakes his head. That’s not your mouth, Atsumu can hear in Oikawa’s prissy, condescending tone, the f*cking rule-bending cheater.

Atsumu slaps Oikawa on the ass in retaliation. Oikawa’s muscles instantly tense as he yelps, mouth coming to a hard stop. Atsumu has only a second to wonder if he f*cked up somehow before Oikawa’s body seizes and shudders, a guttural moan reverberating in his throat.

Atsumu’s initial shock morphs into sad*stic delight. He latches onto Oikawa’s hole, creating a ring of suction with his lips before bringing his hand down harder. Oikawa jumps, throat tightening around Atsumu before pulling back with a cough, a fresh wave of saliva coating Atsumu’s co*ck.

Being under Oikawa makes it so that Atsumu can only aim well at a single spot on his ass, but it doesn’t matter. He hits it relentlessly until he can feel heat radiating off the flesh, can see the red splotch in his periphery. A graze of his teeth and a strike of his palm pushes Oikawa past the point of no return. He spills across Atsumu’s abdomen with a moan, come soaking through Atsumu’s t-shirt and cooling on his skin.

Before Atsumu can preen, Oikawa goes down on him again, muffled whimpers and renewed vibrations rumbling through Atsumu’s co*ck.

“Ah, f*ck—” Atsumu groans, his toes curling. No longer trying to hold his org*sm back, it’s only a few seconds until he snaps and comes down Oikawa’s throat. Oikawa swallows every drop.

Atsumu’s head spins as his climax ebbs, a mix of lingering arousal and confusion. He enjoyed that? Really enjoyed it? But the fog clears as he realizes something even bigger, even better—

“I won.”

Oikawa pops off his co*ck before glaring over his shoulder. “It wasn’t a competition.”

“Says the one who decided to suck my dick and made it into a competition in the first place.”

Oikawa awkwardly twists back around to face Atsumu, his pout a glaring confession. “Well, I won the race, so we’re even now.”

“Says who, besides your delusion?”

“Shouyou-kun got his hands on the race photos,” Oikawa says, and Atsumu’s blood freezes in his veins.

“You’re bluffing.”

Oikawa’s lips turn up into a devilish little smirk before he clambers off Atsumu to reach into the front seat. Phone acquired, he shuffles back and plops himself into Atsumu’s lap. He raises the phone to his face to unlock it before flipping it around to Atsumu, his texts open to a chat with Hinata.

Shouyou

> Akemi-san just sent me these. Don’t show it to Atsumu-san until he’s parked the van or else I think he might crash it!

> [6 images attached]

Atsumu taps into the photo collection, which seems to be a series of shots of Oikawa and Atsumu at the end of the race. Atsumu will need to get the first five purged from the earth before they end up immortalized on the internet—he looks deranged, mouth wide open and skin tinged green. But the only one that matters now is the final shot, zoomed in on his and Oikawa’s feet, with Oikawa’s shoe an inch ahead of Atsumu’s, undeniably hovering over the finish line.

“That’s why you were smirkin’ at your f*ckin’ phone.” Atsumu grimaces.

“Just celebrating my much deserved win,” Oikawa sings.

“Even now, remember?” Atsumu grits through his teeth.

“Aww, whatever you need to say to yourself to feel better,” Oikawa says, patting Atsumu on the cheek.

Atsumu smacks his hand away. “You’re the one who said it!”

“Because I, too, am a benevolent, virtuous human being. The most generous, even, tending to the very wounds I caused.”

Atsumu shoves Oikawa off him and yanks his pants back up. Getting Oikawa to finish first is definitely a victory, but still resulted in Oikawa coming, which Atsumu now realizes is a win in itself. What does Atsumu get from second place in the race? Nothing. Two wins is more than one. That means Oikawa has more wins.

“Score’s even,” Atsumu insists, despite having done the boy math to prove otherwise.

“Hey, remember that I’m not your enemy—”

“Wrong—”

“—it’s the jacko*ff. Which was… inaccurate. In my humble opinion.”

Atsumu’s brows lift. “Was that a compliment, Tooru-chan?”

“It’s whatever you need it to be to feel better about yourself,” Oikawa says again, busying himself with collecting his clothes. He pulls his shirt over his head before continuing, “And if you must know, Shouyou-kun only told me about your situation because I was involved in a similar one. I did an interview with someone thinking it was going to be about the volleyball team, but it ended up in the gossip column with a bunch of my words twisted and taken out of context. Painted me out to be this nasty playboy when, at that point, I’d only slept with Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa shakes his head as he pulls on his pants. “Losers will always do anything to drag hot, successful, and smart people down to their level.”

Atsumu turns Oikawa’s words over in his head. He’d never consider himself similar to Oikawa, but he supposes that they can stand in wronged hot-boy solidarity, just this once.

“Good thing your inflated head keeps you plenty high in the sky,” Atsumu says, because he’s not about to let Oikawa know that.

“Projecting much, Atsumu-chan?”

They move back to the front seat, and Atsumu drives Oikawa the rest of the way to his campus. When they pull up outside of Oikawa’s frat house, someone is standing on the front porch, arms crossed and frowning.

“sh*t,” Oikawa says. “Nevermind, turn around. I am not dealing with this—”

Atsumu honks the horn. The man turns around, brows lifting as he spots Oikawa through the window. “Oikawa!” the man shouts, loud enough to be heard through the door.

Oikawa glares at Atsumu, who just smirks.

“I-Iwa-chan!” Oikawa gingerly pushes open the door, his voice laced with false cheer. “What are you doing here?”

Iwa-chan walks down the stairs, hands clenched into fists. Atsumu’s gaze lingers on his biceps because, damn, Iwa-chan is jacked.

“What am I doing here? What aren’t you doing at the meeting? They sent me to get your ass.”

“We were havin’ some fun,” Atsumu starts, and Oikawa turns around, eyes frantic and pleading. “Gettin’ day drunk at STI. His car got booted, though, so I hadda bring ‘im back home.”

Oikawa breathes a small sigh of relief before Iwa-chan hits him up the side of the head. Oikawa yelps, rubbing at his temple. “Iwa-chan!” he whines. “I told you to stop doing that, you brute.”

“Hoping that one day it’ll knock some sense into your head.” Iwa-chan turns to Atsumu and bows. “Thanks for driving him.”

“My pleasure, Iwa-chan.”

Iwa-chan’s face pinches. “Name’s Iwaizumi Hajime. Yours?”

“Miya Atsumu. Call me Atsumu.” His eyes flick up and down the length of Iwaizumi’s body. “Or any time.”

Iwaizumi’s brow furrows, and Oikawa gasps. “You who—mmph!”

“Well, we have to get going, Atsumu-kun,” Iwaizumi says, hand firmly over Oikawa’s mouth. “But thanks again.”

“See ya,” Atsumu says with a two-fingered salute. They begin to walk off, but not before Oikawa throws another nasty glare Atsumu’s way. Atsumu winks back.

As he’s pulling away from the curb, he sees Iwaizumi hit Oikawa again through the rearview mirror. No wonder Oikawa likes getting smacked around.

Atsumu’s eyes flick back to the road, but his mind is elsewhere, pondering if he can convince the two of them to have a threesome.