Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time they sleep together is after a game the Jackals lose. Atsumu preps him poorly, one finger for every kill because, “That’s your job, ain’t it, ace?” Sakusa’s too angry to care but two is too little for his virgin ass so he’s “tight as hell” and risks passing out if not for the water splashing his face.

They do it in the shower, where everything is slippery and clean, and Sakusa’s eyes sting with tears that fall unnoticed. It hurts as expected, more so with the post-game fatigue and the weight of his failure—not as a volleyball player but someone pathetic enough to invite a pig like Miya Atsumu to fuck him with his dirty cock. 

Atsumu guides him clinically: “Spread your legs, bend over, deep breath, relax, breathe, that’s it, good boy, you’ve never done this before, have you?” 

With him, Sakusa has his first real orgasm. 

He has fallen into a soothing daze, forehead braced against the steamy cabin, the scorch of Atsumu’s thrusts as gratifying as the brat’s bit-back moans, when Atsumu slides his hand to the front of his body and touches him how Sakusa could never touch himself. He reels in disgust, fighting it, because it feels good, too good.  

“Hush,” Atsumu calms him. “You’re right there, I promise.” 

Sakusa doesn’t have the brain capacity to wonder if it’s normal to be so aroused from someone stretching your asshole, and not nicely either, not gently or intimately. There are no kisses or kind words. Every thrust splits him, but his dick is erect and he trembles with what can only be pleasure. Is any of this normal?

When he squirts into Atsumu’s fist, he gasps and his legs shatter with the urgency of his finish. Atsumu struggles to catch him and lower them safely on the tiles. He fucks Sakusa through his orgasm, and it all blends together, shock and nausea, Atsumu’s own groans—he’s twitching all over like a dying insect. Sakusa wants to stop and stay forever, chasing this high, when suddenly—he’s empty with no one to hold him hostage. 

He turns just in time to see Atsumu snap the condom off his cock and stroke thick, white cum on his tender ass. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this for,” Atsumu smirks, fingers trailing his filth. 

Sakusa lays on the grimy shower tiles for hours after, watching the downpour wash the evidence off his body. The cleansing that follows hurts more than the sex but that pain is familiar. He scrubs harder at his groin, the dark bruises on his hip bones, edges himself towards crying but doesn’t. 

Atsumu and Bokuto have left on their morning run by the time Sakusa wakes up. His ass hurts. His shirt sticks to his body. He doesn’t have to look under his boxers to know why he prickles all over with the sweetness of a dream still fresh in his mind— tight, warm pressure, a mouth enveloping him, Atsumu’s burnt, amber eyes and soft, bruised lips. 

He’s had wet dreams before. In his horny, teen years, it was the only version of ‘getting off’ he wasn’t too ashamed to need, a passive way to accept his sexuality, something viscerally out of his control that he could learn to hate and allow to happen. Atsumu has featured in a few, like Wakatoshi-kun and Bokuto-san, and any man with whom Sakusa has exchanged heated glares. Aesthetically pleasing people that anyone might visually appreciate. 

There’s pee on the toilet seat, paste in the sink, bleached-blond hair clogging the drain, and canvassed on the shower cabin. Atsumu leaves his towels on the floor, never picks up after himself. These are flaws Sakusa knows about and has learned to live with so he shouldn’t welcome the panic attack, but when his toes brush on last night’s used condom, he does, and it’s a bad one.

It takes two to live in denial, and Miya Atsumu has never once won quietly.

He has the locker room hollering when Sakusa arrives, late, still hurting. He lingers by the door, deciphering the topic of their conversation. It’s about you, his mind decides, they’re talking about you, what you did because they know, he told them, of course he did, and they’re disgusted, as they should be, as you should be, you will never live this down.

Meian draws attention to his entrance: “Thank you for joining us.” 

Sakusa ignores him and beelines for his locker, as far from the others as physically possible. Bokuto changes next to him because Sakusa can tolerate him the most of all the Jackals and Bokuto smiled when Sakusa requested he take the spot beside him at the start of the year. 

“You alright, man?” he asks. “We thought you weren’t coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sakusa bristles, peeling off his shoes. His ass stings, impeding his movements. He pushes through. It changes nothing.

“You were sleeping when we left,” Bokuto says. “We thought you might be sick or something.”

“Morning!” Atsumu greets.

Sakusa slams the locker shut loudly enough he can pretend he didn’t hear it. Atsumu is undeterred, his voice the most sugary and grating early in the day so he can flex to everyone how much of a morning person he is. 

“Feeling okay, Omi-kun?” Atsumu simpers. “You missed breakfast. Late night?”

Sakusa sees straight through him as if he were made of tracing paper, a blueprint for any mean-spirited fuckboy with a chip on his shoulder, unoriginally angry with losing and his better brother, with how painfully insecure he is and openly so—he can’t stand being himself.

“A good night's sleep is very important, you know?” Atsumu pokes. 

To deign him with an eye-roll would be to give him what he wants: attention, the bad-kind especially, because deep down, that’s all he thinks he deserves. So he gets under people’s skins and feels accomplished doing it. 

He limps in practice, wincing through his spikes. Every step shoots pain up his back. Sakusa grits his teeth, shoving it down, running harder, faster, in spite, punishing his body, who wanted this, who loved it for a second.

He reads Atsumu well enough to know when the ball is headed his way. It’s Hinata’s spike. Sakusa hangs back, doesn’t jump but he has to for the feint to work.

“If you’re not going to bother giving it your all, I don’t see a reason for you to be here,” the coach calls him out. 

They break for water and no one speaks to him because they know, because he told them, of course he did. He seethes silently, wanting nothing more than for this day to end. 

“Omi-Omi!” Atsumu runs towards him. Sakusa cringes away. Atsumu throws an arm around his shoulders, tucking him against his chest.

“Get off me. I will hurt you.” Sakusa threatens, knocking him back. 

Atsumu holds him tighter. “You’re bleeding—”

Sakusa’s too concerned with thrashing to listen. They’re in public. He won’t play these mind games with others watching, his team, the only people whose opinions he cares about. 

“Your ass is bloody,” Atsumu repeats, harsher. “You need to go to the bathroom to clean yourself. There’s an extra pair of shorts in my bag. They should fit you. Burn them after.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Atsumu startles him. 

He’s leaning on the doorframe of the locker room, a lazy smirk on his pompous face. It’s the first time they’re alone and Sakusa doesn’t look forward to what he has to make himself do.

He folds Atsumu’s borrowed pants and rolls up his stained ones, tucking them in his laundry pouch. The sweatpants he came in with are black, thankfully. If he sits right and holds his breath, he might make it home with no further embarrassments. 

“You didn’t say shit about it hurting or I’d have been nicer,” Atsumu says, circling. “Maybe.”

Sakusa zips his sports bag. “I don’t want to talk about this, Miya,” he mutters. “You shouldn’t either because if you tell anyone about last night, that we,” he lowers his voice. “Were sexually involved,” the words singe his tongue. Atsumu looks delighted. “I’m going to—”

“What?” Atsumu barges into his personal space, cornering Sakusa against the locker, arms on either side. “I’m curious,” he hums, too close. “What are you gonna do if I tell everyone you like it up the ass and beg when people touch your dick?”

Sakusa swallows, thrown, because none of his elaborate mental scenarios had prepared him for this. Atsumu stares at him like injured prey when in all of Sakusa’s reenactments, he had been wobbly, big-eyed with big hope that Sakusa would have no choice but to crush. 

Atsumu snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that pressed to make my business public but don’t threaten me when you’ve nothing to follow through.” He leans in until Sakusa has to look away to avoid their faces touching. “I ain’t scared of you, I’ve seen what makes you cry.”

He peels off, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging nonchalantly. “Bokuto’s cooking so don’t be late if you wanna eat ‘cause I ain’t waiting. I know you’re going through it or whatever.” He rolls his eyes at the sheer idea that an ass injury that might put him out of commission is a thing of concern for a pro athlete. “I’d recommend you get over it fast. I ain’t keen on losing and your hits are sloppy even without the… extra deficit.”

Sakusa shakes with how badly he wants to hurt him. His fists clench and visions of what he could do, should—grab his cool boy, oversized bomber, yank his hair back and bash his smug face in until it’s gushing blood out of every dirty hole and he’s curled up on the floor, whimpering for it to stop—flash through his mind.

Atsumu heads for the door without sparing him another look.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it,” Sakusa says. This stops Atsumu in his tracks and Sakusa smiles privately behind the mask. Allows the momentum to barrel him forward. “I’ll say you’re full of shit. Who do you think they’ll believe? Your own brother says you’re a compulsive liar. Plus...” He stops next to Atsumu. “Why would someone like me ever sleep with someone like you?”

“Why did you?” Atsumu snips, eyes bottled sparks of hurt he buries under rage. 

Sakusa shrugs. “Did I?” 

The second time they fuck, they’re on Sakusa’s bed. 

Akaashi’s in town for the long weekend and Bokuto’s showing him around, leaving Sakusa and Atsumu to exist, trapped in the same, confined space for three days of no practice or distractions. 

Sakusa hates occasions that infringe on routines. Without volleyball, he flounders. It’s as good of an excuse as any. 

Atsumu spends his time off sprawled out on the couch in nothing but ratty, gym shorts, one hand down his crotch, the other stuffed in a family-size bag of potato chips. Seeing him like that, Sakusa turns back around and sits in his room for a full twenty minutes, hyperventilating. 

It’s been five weeks since the shower. Often, Sakusa wants it. Factors prevent him. There’s pride and Bokuto, exhaustion from hours of training he tends to extend because apparently, he’s getting sloppy, time-restraints, location-restraints, and the transparent way Atsumu dismisses him like he’s not even worth teasing anymore. 

When Sakusa walks back into the living room, he’s wearing a different shirt, white, practically see-through. It’s chilly in the apartment and his nipples show. He knows. He shivers in anticipation—every step measured, walking the plank. 

Atsumu’s too caught up in whatever he’s watching to notice.

“Yeah, ok,” Sakusa mumbles to get his attention. 

Atsumu glances at him, confused. “Huh?”

“Do you wanna hang out?” Sakusa asks, not bothering to control the origami-level contortions his face goes through pronouncing every word. 

Atsumu blinks at him twice before throwing one of his hairy legs off the couch, offering him the space in between his thighs. 

“Not changing the channel,” he says. 

Sakusa rocks back on his heels, curling into himself, ready to give up a second time. But his eyes land on Atsumu’s dirty toes and trace over the leg that’s perched on the top of the couch, following the curve of his muscles to where his balls peek out from the bottom of his shorts, nestled in dark curls.

“Um,” he swallows the wetness in his mouth. “You wanna hang out in my room?” 

If Atsumu’s looking at him, at his wringing hands, tucked in front of him, hiding the needy bulge in his pants, Sakusa wouldn’t know. His eyes drop to the throwup carpet stain from their housewarming party. He counts breaths, tells himself he’ll leave if nothing happens after three, four, five…

“I’m comfortable actually,” Atsumu says. Sakusa can hear him smirking, refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking shattered and disappointed, but he’s aroused so he pouts. “Why don’t you sit your tight ass over here and I’ll give you what you want.”

Sakusa catches himself three steps in, having moved almost through magic.

“No,” he puts his foot down, “My room.”

“He won’t be back ‘till tomorrow. The only sights they’re seeing are those up Bokuto’s waxed ass. And anyway, it’ll take me two seconds to make you cum your pants, not worth the trip—” 

“Do what I say or fuck it,” Sakusa snaps, face hot. 

Atsumu’s quiet for a beat. Sakusa makes the mistake of thinking he’s subdued. After all, before this... thing, something as subtle as scoff from Sakusa could derail Atsumu’s whole day. He’d get so quiet and uncomfortable, used to beg for Sakusa’s approval. And Sakusa dangled it in front of him more times than he can admit.

Atsumu chucks the bag of chips on the ground and flings his body up in one smooth move. “Oh I’ll fuck it alright,” he grumbles under his breath, fisting a chunk of Sakusa’s t-shirt and dragging him, stumbling along the hallway towards his room.

With the manhandling, his shoulder slips out of the collar. Atsumu double-takes, seeing it. He smirks at Sakusa. “Slut. Got condoms?”

“Uhh.” 

“Lube?”

Sakusa blushes. “No.”

Atsumu shuts the door behind them before Sakusa has time to regret. It’s the first time anyone but him has seen his private space and Atsumu, while smaller, fills it uncomfortably. He takes in the compulsive organization, nose scrunched in disdain, looks at Sakusa with the same indifferent antipathy. 

“All fours on the bed,” he orders and when Sakusa hesitates, “I get bored real fast so don’t start making me repeat shit.”

Sakusa obeys because it feels good to let someone make you, and to his horror, he’s drawn to pleasure. He kneels on the mattress before crawling to the center and staying put on all fours, head hanging in shame. 

The flush is now everywhere, on the back of his neck, his hands, thick lava in his belly. He’s mortified, and, of course, hard.

“Only,” he breathes, staring at his fingers. “Don’t hurt me… permanently. Like…”

Like last time. Atsumu doesn’t vocally respond and Sakusa won’t look at him to check if he otherwise nods or understands. Part of the appeal is never knowing where his head is.

This time, Atsumu fingers him too long , quietly obliging any time Sakusa grunts for more until he’s four fingers deep, filling Sakusa’s ass and slamming on his prostate with each twist of the wrist. 

Waves upon waves of building pleasure. He’s being gentle. With no pain to chase it down, Sakusa finds it difficult to ground himself in hating it, to keep strong and refuse. 

When Atsumu finally pushes his hard cock inside him, Sakusa splatters the bed and drops face-first on the soaked sheets, whimpering. 

“Did you just—?” 

“No,” Sakusa hiccups, mortified. “No, I’m fine—fucking go.”

Atsumu laughs at him. “You really are a slut!”

Sakusa is not supposed to want to answer. Atsumu slings an arm underneath his belly to lift him back on shaky knees, while his other hand lands somewhere close to Sakusa’s face on the bed. He recoils at once, pulling it away—“Eugh. You’re slobbering. Shut your damn mouth.” 

Sakusa shoves his face in the pillow, burning in humiliation. “Sorry.”

Atsumu plunges into him, fucks him like he’s wanted nothing more than to destroy him ever since they laid eyes on each other. Sakusa accepts it like he deserves it. It’s rough, extremely pleasant. He moans, can’t breathe, can’t make out most of what Atsumu’s growling against his shoulder, doesn’t realize he’s hard again until Atsumu grabs his dick and makes him scream.

“So needy,” Atsumu snarls, touching him way too fast with Sakusa barely clinging to his body, toes curled, eyes rolled so far back he sees nothing but sparks.

Atsumu squeezes his cock. “Don’t wanna cum?”

Sakusa whimpers, shaking his head, because he doesn’t think he can handle another orgasm, his cock burns, still reeling from the first. His muscles tense and spasm every time Atsumu thrusts in.

“Aw, why not?” Atsumu mocks, coaxing it out of him with every stroke. 

“I did, I did,” Sakusa sobs, clutching the pillow to his chest for some semblance of reality. 

“Oh really now?” Atsumu says and it’s that belittling tone that rips it out of him. He can’t see, hears nothing but the blood rushing through his skull and the start of Atsumu’s groan.

“I have to start gagging you or the whole of Japan will know,” Atsumu comments, tossing him on the mattress, a shaking, limp mess. 

He slides the condom off, flinging it somewhere on the carpet, knowing full well Sakusa will have to pick up after him and that it’ll thoroughly disgust him, doing it.

They lay next to each other, the only sound Atsumu’s ragged breaths, and Sakusa’s own snuffles. 

He can’t remember the last time he cried properly, only that he can’t stop now that he started. He’s full on bawling. Atsumu won’t comfort him, though he’s freezing and completely distraught. Sakusa doesn’t need him to—that’s why he’s crying, he doesn’t need any of this the moment it’s over. 

“That good, huh?” Atsumu whistles, laughing at his misery. “You’re a pretty crier at least.”

“Don’t tell,” Sakusa mumbles, as Atsumu pulls up his shorts.

Atsumu crouches next to the bed to face him. “What? That you got a needy cunt?” 

Sakusa swallows down what tastes like pure hatred he didn’t think possible. “Yeah,” he submits. 

Atsumu smiles at him, pleased. “Ok, my little slut, whatever you want.”

The bed stinks of sweat and intercourse, sheets crusty with saliva. Sakusa’s too drained to change them and sleeps on the floor, shivering through the night. It’s the desire that scares him, wanting someone in a way that physically hurts, and that someone having to be Atsumu of all people—he’s devastated. 

Atsumu is right about one thing: Bokuto doesn’t come back that night or the following day.

Sakusa wakes up at five in the morning with a skull-splitting headache and half his body numb. He needs to stop. Out of all his self-sabotaging behaviors, this one has to go. In fact, it shouldn’t even be referred to as a behavior. It’s a mistake made twice, some facet of his will he was testing, and now, satisfied with the results, can be left alone.

The shower runs cold. He washes under icy water, changes his sheets, disinfects his room, goes for a run in the pouring rain, comes back, showers again, cooks breakfast, does laundry.

All before Atsumu makes his first trip to the bathroom, pissing on the toilet seat with the door wide-open so Sakusa hears it and knows he doesn’t wash his hands after tucking his dick in.

Atsumu settles on the couch, turns on the TV and makes it clear he has no plans to leave the apartment so Sakusa does, though he dislikes being outside around others. It beats being trapped with Atsumu and the reality that without Bokuto to provide relief, they’ll go at each other one way or another. 

He comes back to moans. Atsumu’s watching porn on the living room screen. He doesn’t pause the lewd video when Sakusa steps in, slamming the door off its hinges to announce his displeasure. Atsumu yelps, flinching to check. Sakusa shouldn’t be relieved to see that the stupid face popping up from behind the couch is alone. 

“Hey,” Atsumu says, turning his eyes back on the screen. 

He’s not wearing a shirt and his sweatpants are filthy and stained at the crotch like he did this once already without bothering to change. Sakusa wants to choke him. But this is all another ploy for attention. Sakusa might have lost his self-respect when he dragged his ‘cunt’ all over Atsumu’s cock but today is a new today and today, he has some wits about him. 

He exhales, relaxes his shoulders and walks towards his room. Headphones and a Xanax will fix this problem.

“Watch with me,” Atsumu says predictably.

 “Alright,” Sakusa surprises himself when he really should get used to folding like this. It’s the same mechanism every single time: wanting to punish the slob for thinking Sakusa would care, then caring, then ending up covered in semen with a burning rage to want to punish him. Rinse. Repeat.

Atsumu loves gay porn of small, pretty boys begging burly ‘daddies’ to get their assholes fucked by dicks the size of their bony forearms. 

Sakusa wonders if that’s how Atsumu sees him despite Sakusa being bigger and buffer, taller too, hairier. Sakusa wonders if Atsumu wants this from him. Tough luck. Then he notices he’s thinking of Atsumu, and that’s actually what Atsumu wants.

“You’ve made your point,” Sakusa says. Atsumu’s skipping to the cum shot again. 

“Clearly not or you’d be calling me something else.” Atsumu throws him a wink.

Sakusa finds him vexing and mildly pathetic. Knowing Atsumu, he probably doesn't give a shit what Sakusa thinks, which is the fucked up part in this whole mess. Atsumu is at his most attractive when he’s dirty and insolent, not tripping over himself to accommodate him like the good, decent boys in Sakusa’s past. 

You’re so insignificant, Sakusa thinks, and it makes him so goddamn hard. 

Sakusa sighs. “Do you actually find this arousing… and fun? Or do you just want me to be annoyed? Because I’m plenty annoyed doing anything with you.”

“You don’t trust me,” Atsumu wonders out loud.

Sakusa raises an eyebrow. Atsumu must read his amusement because his eyes soften and he grins. “Come ‘ere,” he asks. Sakusa doesn’t. “Come on, trust me, come here.”

“I trust you,” Sakusa deflects, averting his gaze just in time to catch the top fist a chunk of the twink’s hair, slapping a monstrous dick against his face until the boy’s eyes roll back. 

Much like his dreams, like he had always thought he would want Atsumu—kneeling on the floor and gagging over every drop of filth Sakusa spared for him. 

“If you trusted me you’d come,” Atsumu calls his attention. The twink is crying, tears streaming down his red cheeks. “Come on. I’m trying to be nice,” Atsumu insists, getting whiny. 

He pats the spot next to him. Sakusa eyes it warily before shifting closer so he’s in arms reach but there’s space between them. He doesn’t trust Atsumu as far as he can throw him. If anything, he mistrusts him, but that’s what makes it tolerable. Do your worst, he thinks.

“You trust me?” Atsumu bridges the gap, leaning into him, eyes sparkling like champagne. 

Sakusa drinks him in, angling his face to make himself available. “I told you I did.”

They’ve yet to kiss. Sakusa doesn’t want to. But Atsumu might. He’s always looking at Sakusa’s mouth when they’re in practice or out to eat. He’s staring at it now, sucking on his bottom lip, as he leans in, pushes himself up to reach. Sakusa thinks he hears his breath do that trembling inhale thing so:

“Don’t even think about it,” Sakusa pops his balloon. 

Atsumu looks down immediately—the disappointment on his face so short-lived, it isn’t worth thinking of it as a win. 

“Trust me, okay?” he mumbles. “Don’t flinch from me.” He makes to move. Sakusa tenses without meaning to. “ Don’t! Don’t,” Atsumu sighs, reaching for his forearm. “Trust me, remember?”

Sakusa nods stiffly, though Atsumu must know he’s lying. Atsumu lowers himself to the floor. Sakusa watches as he shoves Sakusa’s knees apart and kneels between them.

“I’m gonna be sweet today,” Atsumu announces, sounding proud of himself.

“Why?” And no. 

Atsumu shrugs as a response. He kisses his way up Sakusa’s thigh, closing in on his stirring groin. Mouths Sakusa’s erection on top of his pants, looking whorish. 

Sakusa blinks back, not knowing what to do. For a seemingly dominant position, getting blown is kind of submissive in itself, and not in a relaxing way. He has to do things, be in charge, but really it’s Atsumu, who has the power to castrate him. 

The pretty boy on the screen is having his face painted white, cum clinging to his swollen lips. 

“You can watch,” Atsumu catches him, fingers dragging the hem of Sakusa’s pants down to let his cock flop against his shirt. He finds he’s hard, a surprise.

Atsumu licks his lips, presumably to look sexy. But he shows off his tongue so often that Sakusa only associates it with points and childish celebrations, and finds it endearing.

“I’d rather you watch me though,” Atsumu talks low and deep, another performance. “I don’t do this for anyone, Omi.”

Sakusa doubts that. More so when Atsumu wraps his hand around the base of Sakusa’s cock, thumb pushing into his tight balls, and licks a wet strip towards the tip. Without hesitation, swallowing him whole and bobbing up and down easily despite Sakusa’s dick more than once grazing the back of his throat. All you do is suck cock, Sakusa thinks of saying.

Atsumu hollows his cheeks and deepthroats. He starts fake-choking on the size, like the porn-boy on the screen, moaning and gurgling. 

Sakusa sits there, letting it happen. It feels good, sure, but Atsumu’s dripping everywhere and Sakusa feels his hot saliva sliding down his thighs and into his asshole. He’s itchy. 

Atsumu grabs his hand with his sticky, wet fingers and guides Sakusa to grab at his hair. When he looks up, honey wide-eyed, he almost seems innocent. 

Sakusa wants to spit on him or piss on his face and he’s bewildered by the repulsive thought. Embarrassed. That it’s the only thing to get a grunt out of him when combined with Atsumu’s eager suckling. 

“You’re supposed to be telling me how good of a job I’m doing,” Atsumu mopes. “How I make you feel good and all that, didn’t ya learn from the video?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “I must have missed the script.”

Atsumu smiles, a private little thing that has Sakusa wondering because it’s not part of the performance. His hand replaces his mouth on Sakusa’s dick, and he squeezes. Hard. Sakusa jerks up in pain, squirming into the couch when Atsumu won’t let go, tightening his grip until it’s pure agony—what the hell?! 

“I think you like me better when I’m not nice,” Atsumu figures. His fingers slide towards the tip of Sakusa’s dick, dragging back the foreskin so he can press his rough thumb on the sensitive slit, rubbing circles until Sakusa’s thighs shake.  

He’s never really, no one’s ever really... 

“And I like you better when you’re crying over my name,” Atsumu says.

Sakusa shoves him away. Atsumu knocks back into the table behind him. He stands—they might actually fight—and throws himself on the couch beside Sakusa. Picks up the remote to click out of the video. Without the constant white noise of moans, the silence is crackling.

Sakusa is hard as hell, reeling and exposed. His heart hammers against his rib cage. 

“I’m bored,” Atsumu yawns. “I’m gonna shower.”

He slams face down on his bed and screams his frustration into the pillow. 

Doesn’t know how it starts only that he’s suddenly doing it and can’t seem to stop. He rocks his body into the mattress and when it’s not hard enough, shoves the pillow from his face underneath him, clutching it in his fist to keep it balled up as he humps his crotch against it.

This is debasing. He thinks of Atsumu while doing it. Imagines it’s his mouth and his stupid face he’s rutting against. Bites back whimpers, getting close. He needs to dispose of it somewhere without touching.

“Look at the horny bunny,” Atsumu’s actual voice comes, reeking a type of mockery Sakusa can never materialize with his own thoughts alone—this kind of evil needs to be experienced.  

Sakusa jumps back, off the pillow, curling into the wall. Atsumu stands by the door, cocky smirk on his lips. “No, no, keep going, sounded like you were close.”

Sakus stares at him in shock.

“I’ll help, if you ask nicely,” Atsumu says.

“Go fuck yourself, get the fuck out of my room!” Sakusa panics, jumping off the bed to charge him, fully intent on throwing him and maybe pummeling his face in afterward. 

Atsumu doesn’t budge when Sakusa pushes at his chest. His hand grabs Sakusa’s wrist, pulling him towards his body, while the other shoves its way down Sakusa’s pants to palm his hard dick. Sakusa huffs with the contact.

“Yeah? You need me to get you off?” Atsumu asks. 

They’re breath to breath. His hand isn’t moving. “I despise you,” Sakusa spits, shaking.

“I don’t care. Yes or no?” Atsumu repeats, giving him a tiny squeeze. 

Sakusa’s cheeks burn. This is an ongoing, endless, burning nightmare. “Yes.”

Atsumu jerks him off on the spot where he’s standing, not bothering to lead him to the bed or take off his pants. Sakusa clutches his shirt to keep himself upright through the pleasure. His other hand leaves nail marks on the doorway. 

“Look at me,” Atsumu demands. Sakusa obeys, lifting his head. At this moment, he’d do anything Atsumu asked with great, great happiness. “You can cum now.”

It’s not as urgent as last night, burns differently because it’s mental more than anything. He’s standing in the open where anyone can walk in. Atsumu, the only reason he can stay upright, the one fiddling with his dick, making him feel like this, like a whore, like nothing, like he could die and no one would give a flying fuck. 

It gets on both their shirts. 

His head falls on Atsumu’s shoulder as he breathes through the aftermath. Atsumu removes his hand and wipes it on the back of Sakusa’s shirt. Sakusa shivers in disgust. Atsumu must mistake it for something else because he wraps his arms around Sakusa after and holds him there wordlessly, waiting for his heartbeat to remember that this is horrifying.

There’s drool all over Atsumu’s shirt when Sakusa breaks away. Atsumu doesn’t comment on it. Sakusa feels dizzy, can’t remember if he did take the Xanax after all. He’s drained. 

“I don’t get you,” Atsumu says. “But boy do I wanna fuck you all the time.”

“Ok cool,” Sakusa says. Atsumu laughs at his response.

Amazingly, they’re fine in practice, not friends, but they play well and Atsumu praises his spikes with big, wonky smiles Sakusa learns to accept as genuine, whilst coming from the same man who calls him a “dirty whore” when Sakusa rocks on his fingers practically every night now—the same fingers giving him his sets. 

No one questions why they suddenly need signals when they could communicate great without. Sakusa’s confused the first time Atsumu flashes him a one, thinking it a bluff tactic until Atsumu brushes against him at the water station, whispering, “That’s all you’ll get tonight. Think you can take me?”  

He’s flirting.

• “Get naked and wait for me ass in the air.”
• “Can you get yourself ready? No, ‘course you can’t, dumb question.”
• “Still on for tonight. I saved up for you, haven’t touched myself at all.”
• “I’m so hard, I’d do anything for your ass. I think you could make me cum just from sitting on me. You wanna try? You wanna do some work today? Fuck don’t blush like that. You’ll make me like you.”

It should bother Sakusa that he can’t compartmentalize. 

With Atsumu, it’s everything at once. His life bleeds into his volleyball, his moods into sets, their sex all over the plays. If they don’t fuck right, he’ll be messy. If they don’t win, he’ll cum fast, deepening his meltdowns. 

“Call me daddy,” he keeps insisting but Sakusa won’t. “Call me daddy or I won’t give it to you.” But he always does, because unlike Sakusa, he lacks the will to see things through. For how loud his ego is, how big his dumb mouth, Atsumu depends on validation. 

• “You want me bad, huh?”
• “You’re so loud when I fuck you, Omi-kun.”
• “Look at your greedy hole.”
• “You take my cock so well. It’s all yours, you little whore, you love it, don’t you?”
• “Tell me how good I make you feel. Babe, tell me how good.”

It’s humiliating to love submitting to someone you don’t even respect. He has been crushed on before by women and men alike. He’s attractive and he knows it. But Atsumu wants him bad enough to tear him apart—wants him despite himself, and there’s nothing hotter than being the biggest vice in someone’s life. 

Sakusa can’t shake his eyes when he plays, taking his sets and morphing them into bullets. He can smell the arousal on Atsumu’s sweat when they huddle during games, that thick musk of fancy aftershave and unquenchable thirst. It used to disgust him; now it makes his pants tight, his stomach lurch. 

If they sit at the back of the bus through planned accident and it’s late after a game with the rest of the team dozing, Atsumu won’t have it in him to wait. He’ll tuck his hand down Sakusa’s pants and jerk him off until Sakusa’s nails dig the plush off the seat and he slices his tongue, swallowing moans. 

“You’re so easy,” Atsumu marvels every time Sakusa trembles through a premature orgasm from something as simple as a whispered: “Go ahead, let me see how pretty you cum.”

Sakusa doesn’t point out it’s a lifetime of lack he’s making up for, that ever since Atsumu took his virginity (and it could have been anyone—at least that’s what he tells himself), his mind thinks of nothing but repeating it over and over again. 

Seedy bathrooms, the seedier the better, empty locker rooms, or not that empty, the court if they’re the last two practicing, going from hitting spike after spike to Atsumu finding new ways to defile him and the sport they both love. 

Atsumu razes him. Sakusa’s dirt before his eyes, a wound grated clean of any scabs. 

They lose to the Adlers the week of Romero’s birthday. 

Hinata’s surprisingly indifferent about the defeat. They’ve played them so often, it has stopped being a thing. It never stops being a thing for Atsumu. Kageyama is one of his many triggers and everyone knows to give him space if they can’t scrape out a win. Despite who fucks up—in this case, Sakusa and Bokuto, who couldn’t get past their blockers—it becomes Atsumu’s personal cross to bear. If you fail, I fail. If you win, I win.

Sakusa wants to snap, and if you’re a pain in the ass, you’re a pain in my ass, get over yourself.  

This thing of theirs is becoming… involved. Sakusa didn’t twist his principles for them to have to change every time he catches Atsumu pretending he’s not crying. 

Hoshiumi throws a volleyball party in Romero’s honor and the Jackals are invited alongside many other teams with monster generation players. There’s Suna, Atsumu’s arch nemesis, and Aran, his self-proclaimed ex that Osamu says was more like a one time thing. Sakusa’s cousin, Komori, Bokuto’s old teammates and his nerdy boyfriend. Hinata and Kageyama, driving Atsumu insane. And then, Wakatoshi-kun.

“I’ll see you there,” he tells Sakusa in passing so Sakusa goes to see what that’s about. 

He always imagined if he were to be gay for anyone, he’d be gay for Wakatoshi-kun. Komori says you should be gay for yourself mostly but if there’s nobody, then does it matter what he is. 

Wakatoshi-kun is strong and unyielding. Clean. Confident. Comfortable in long silences. A bit of a puzzle. His big hands would fit nicely around Sakusa’s waist, and he’d take care of Sakusa after they fucked, hold him against his broad chest and let him breathe his way down.  

Before, Sakusa would have thought himself too rigid to try but these recent months have taught him he has very little shame and very strong urges towards how soothing it feels to be fucked right. 

Wakatoshi-kun would fuck him right in ways shitty Miya never could. If Sakusa can’t escape the need for sex, the least he can do is remove Atsumu from the equation and replace him with someone better. That’s the plan and Atsumu can cry all about it if he wants.

The bar is stuffed at shoulder-to-shoulder capacity with familiar faces who want to say hi, and tell him about their lives and matches, their wedding rings and new business ideas.  

Sakusa stands out because he bothered to dress up and isn’t covered head-to-tie Adidas like the rest of the bums he calls teammates. He’s in designer gear, his eyes lined in sparkly black, his sharp collar bones showing through the unbuttoned shirt he saves for events, expensive silk that shapes nicely around his muscles.

He turns heads as he weaves through the sweaty crowd to find their table alongside the edge of the club in the private VIP area that’s roped off from the rest. Bokuto waves him over, yelling his name. The rest celebrate his sudden presence with smiles and back pats.  

Except Atsumu, who looks speechless. 

Sakusa had told no one he’d show up. Nights out aren’t usually his way of celebrating so it would make sense Atsumu hadn’t expected him like it makes sense for Atsumu’s flushed face to be tucked into Hinata’s bare neck when Sakusa interrupts.

“Omi-san!” Hinata exclaims, bug-eyed. “Wow, you look like a model!”

“Hey, you didn’t say that about me,” Atsumu teases, shoulder-budging him. 

His eyes find Sakusa, taking him in. Instantly, he looks pissy. Sakusa is going to enjoy pissing him off. And then they’ll fuck, and it’ll be rough. He’s so predictable, this little bitch of his. 

Atsumu is at his most unbearable when he’s out drinking and tonight is no different. He’s four shots in and clinging to anything solid and male.  

The team finds this wasted side of him hilarious. Even Kageyama looks smitten when Atsumu lays an arm around his shoulders and threatens to break his neck so little Tobio-chan stops outshining him. 

Kageyama looks at Atsumu like Hinata does, like no one really should. Awe-struck.  

He’s popular. Men and women seek his golden eyes so Sakusa doesn’t understand why Atsumu trains them on him and him alone. He tracks Sakusa’s frequent water trips and finds him on ‘cigarette breaks,’ shivering to keep him company.

“You’d drive me so crazy if you actually smoked,” Atsumu jokes the first time he follows Sakusa outside and realizes the title is but an excuse for Sakusa to pray to the gods for a quick death so he doesn’t have to return back inside. “You’d look so fucking hot.” 

“Dream on it,” Sakusa says. “Get back inside before you catch hypothermia.”

Atsumu follows him everywhere. It’s never like this when they’re with the team and Atsumu has to make sure he’s the absolute centre of attention. It strikes Sakusa that this is their first time in public since the sex without volleyball as an excuse and Atsumu might not know how much of a boyfriend he should be—zero percent—but Sakusa isn’t exactly telling him off either. Not even when Atsumu slams into the stranger talking Sakusa up. 

“You look good,” Atsumu says when they’re alone in the booth with everyone else mingling on the dance floor. “I’m kinda worried about it,” he admits.

“Worried?” Sakusa asks.

Atsumu scoots next to him, leaning on the table to catch his eyes. His hair is messy with how often he runs his fingers through it, a nervous habit when he’s on the spot or catches Sakusa staring at him from across the room. The jokes of his ugly high school hair have gotten to him. Fix my hair, Omi-kun, he keeps begging before every press conference. Tell me if my hair is weird.

“What?” Sakusa asks when most of Atsumu’s commentary is sucked up by the music.

Atsumu tucks his face closer, eyes glowing with the lights flickering on and off. “I said,” he repeats slower, “You wanna be my boyfriend for tonight?” 

Sakusa has to laugh. “I don’t even want to know you for tonight, how’s that?” He shoots back, patting Atsumu’s thigh. 

Atsumu shifts with his touch so their legs press against each other underneath the table. He’s burning up. His neck is pink. He kicks at Sakusa’s foot. Stares at him with lidded, bedroom eyes. “You didn’t come here for me?” 

If only he knew. It might wound his silly pride. He should know. But it’s not like they’ve made any promises, and if the locker room stories are to be believed, Atsumu is far from loyal. Clubs are where he prowls. Sakusa showing up, is likely messing with his plans to bed some starry-eyed punk, the same way his pretty tongue swiping over that pouty, bottom lip is interfering with Sakusa’s own. They do that to each other.

“I live with you,” Sakusa says, and because it’s too gentle, disgustingly domestic, not something they chose, just something that happened and means nothing. “I don’t have to try to get you to fuck me, Miya.”

“So you tryin’ to get someone to fuck you then?” Atsumu picks up. 

“Aren’t I always?” Sakusa rolls his eyes, wondering when Atsumu calling him a slut turned into an inside joke they now share. 

Atsumu lays his arm on the back of the couch, around Sakusa but not touching him. “Not as fun when you steal my lines, Omi-kun,” he teases. 

It takes two hours of loitering to get a moment alone with Wakatoshi-kun, or as alone as one can be in a nightclub full of annoyances. They stand next to each other by the bar, holding drinks. The music in the background drowns out any chance of proper conversation. Sakusa wouldn’t know what to say so he’s grateful he has an excuse. 

“You actually enjoy this?” He asks, catching the smiles Ushijima sends his teammates. Hoshiumi is having the time of his life on the dance floor and he has Kageyama trying to keep up, which even Sakusa has to admit, is intensely adorable. Atsumu, of course, fumes.

Ushijima shrugs. “It’s nice to let loose.”

“This is you letting loose?” Sakusa quips. 

Because Ushijima looks as rigid as always, back straight, eyebrows pinched. The few times Sakusa catches him swaying to the beat, it looks more like needing to pee than any form of dancing. Sakusa likes it. 

“Yeah.” Ushijima smiles. “And you?” He redirects, bringing the beer to his mouth while his hard eyes study Sakusa. Sakusa wants to lick the foam of his lips. 

“Me what?” he exhales.

Ushijima shrugs again, seems to wrestle with an answer. 

Sakusa waits for what it might be, leaning closer, wetting his lips like he has seen Atsumu do. Ushijima tracks the movement of his tongue and Sakusa tracks him tracking it. It lights a fire in his belly. There’s a chance. 

Atsumu tramples all over it, throwing an arm around Ushijima to scream in his face. “Ushiwaka-kun, you haven’t bought me a drink yet, you know?” 

Ushijima stares at him, caught off guard. He opens his mouth to reply but Atsumu has moved on and launched himself on Sakusa next, squeezing him against the bar with his weight. “And you too. You neither?” he laughs stupidly. “I thought you liked me, Omi.”

Sakusa shoves him. “Get off me. You’re drunk.”

Atsumu leans closer, wrapping his arms around Sakusa’s body in a unconsented hug. He’s stumbling. Without meaning to, Sakusa steadies him, an arm around his waist to keep him safe. They need him. Atsumu takes that as complete permission to lay his head on Sakusa’s shoulder and become one with his body like the big baby that he is.

“Take care of me then if I’m sooooo drunk, huh,” he mumbles in Sakusa’s ear.

Sakusa is mentally running through ways to discard him somewhere where he won’t die but won’t bother anyone either when Ushijima speaks, “He is quite drunk. Someone should take him home. He has thrown up twice already.”

That, Sakusa hadn’t known. In his grasp, Atsumu goes tense, latching onto him tighter because he knows Sakusa will throw him off. Nicely played. 

“He’s fine. He’s always like this,” Sakusa grits. “Bokuto…” He searches for Bokuto and can’t find him anywhere. Akaashi’s missing too. Not ideal. 

“Take me home, I’ll make it worth your while,” Atsumu laughs. 

“Bokuto will.”

“I wanna go home with you,” Atsumu insists. He noses into Sakusa’s neck and whispers, purposely loud. “Aren’t we together? Please.”

Sakusa flushes, can’t tell if he’s sweating because it’s suddenly ten degrees hotter or because Atsumu’s leaning on him, clinging and slurring and overheating. 

Ushijima avoids his eyes. “I can order you a cab?” he recovers politely. 

“You fucking like him or what?” Atsumu accuses when they’re outside, waiting for the cab in freezing weather.  

He’s not stumbling anymore, seems much more in control. Sakusa would call him out on his bullshit and head back inside but once he’s had fresh air, the thought of forcing himself through hours of smoke and sweat for the sake of maybe sucking on Wakatoshi’s tongue is not as appealing as that of his clean bed. 

He doubts Ushijima’s interested after that display anyway. He’s gonna be stuck with Miya Atsumu for the rest of his unideal life. Overgrown baby. Fucktard. Man child. 

“What if I do?” Sakusa says, “What’s up with you? You fucking like me now?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I want you. I’m horny when I’m drunk and you’re—”

“Annoying too,” Sakusa adds, tucking his chin deeper in his scarf to hide the flush Atsumu can coax out of him despite how many boundaries they’ve crossed. 

Hearing him say please like that. That was different. Atsumu has never once put himself out there as someone who’d beg.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Atsumu huffs. “And you’re…” He gets shy. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

The lift is five minutes away. Sakusa stares at his phone, as Atsumu tucks closer to him for warmth because he’s the insecure idiot, flaunting his body with nothing but a t-shirt underneath his coat. 

Sakusa lets him because it’d be irritating to take care of him if he got sick. They need him. The very thought of having him miss practice, how much they’d struggle without him and how much Atsumu would struggle not playing, has Sakusa wrapping both arms around his shivering frame and rubbing his back up and down gently. 

“...ok, so maybe... I like you. What then, huh?” Atsumu mumbles against his shoulder. Way too comfortable and relaxed. If someone were to see, they’d assume they were together. “You like me too or you wouldn’t sleep with me so much.”

“Is that what we do?” Sakusa can’t help himself. “Sleep together? Last I checked I was a dirty whore taking your big, fat cock,” he quotes. 

Atsumu chuckles, unembarrassed. “That’s sex talk, Omi. And it gets you going so I do it for you. I like nice sex too, you know?”

He does and he likes bottoming. Sakusa knows because Sakusa hears him do it with others. It’s not something he wants to be actively contemplating so he pivots into territory he knows will make Atsumu vulnerable enough to drop this conversation. “Give me real talk then.”

“Real talk, you like me,” Atsumu says. “Real talk, you wouldn’t have done shit with him because you like me.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “You’re projecting.”

Atsumu insists on holding his hand on the ride back, pulls him off his seat when they arrive, and pounces on him the second they’re alone. They stumble up the stairs, teasing and shoving. Atsumu backs him into the railing, a three floor drop behind.  

“Scared I’ll let you fall?” He leans in for a kiss. 

Stuck between the option of indulging him and possible death, Sakusa thinks he should choose the latter, and because it’s so insane, he smiles. In one disastrous way or another, Atsumu makes him smile.

“I love your smile,” Atsumu is quick to point out. An opportunist through and through. “I love that you never smile.”

“Because it’s all yours to see?” Sakusa mocks, shoving him off. 

Atsumu laughs, dragging him by his sleeve and stretching out his expensive shirt. Sakusa trips over the steps to follow, and he’s not even the one drunk. 

“I ain’t that romantic,” Atsumu says. Neither is this setting, their shitty dorms, the hallways unkept, full of grime. They run through them like movie characters. 

“Reminds me sometimes you’re kind of pretty,” Atsumu says.

“Fuck you for negging me,” Sakusa scoffs.

Atsumu laughs louder, threading their fingers together. It’s better than the sleeve. 

Atsumu’s hand is warm against his own, kind of sweaty but not entirely unpleasant. His grip is that of a man and he leads. Sakusa can see it already—give him a few years and he’ll be the captain of this team too. He has that about him.

“Fuck you for fishin’ for compliments when you’re a freakin’ narcissist,” Atsumu teases.

“You brought it up,” Sakusa says. He tries to detach his hand to unlock the door of their apartment but Atsumu holds onto it, keeping them in the darkness.

“You’re pretty,” he whispers softly, drawing Sakusa closer, a calloused palm cupping his cheek. 

They might kiss. They rarely kiss. When they do, it’s only in the heat of the moment. Atsumu bites his lip to shut him up from moaning because they’re in public and risk getting caught. Sakusa never kisses back, just lets himself be taken.

Atsumu tucks a stray curl behind his ear. “You know you’re fucking gorgeous.”

“Do you know anything?” Sakusa snaps. Atsumu looks confused. “It’s always about what I know and what I feel, what I would do, so I’m asking, what do you know?”

Atsumu wets his lips and swallows. The smile looks unsure now, awkward. “I know you—” he stumbles, noticing. “I know I—I’m into you.” Sakusa raises an eyebrow. “For some fucked up reason—cause you’re so fucked up, you know?” Atsumu recovers.

They try twice to make it happen but Atsumu’s too drunk to stay hard. He has yet to leave the room, sprawled out on Sakusa’s bed, slowly morphing from his dominant bluff to the try-hard making too many jokes in hopes people will like him. Maybe that’s why Sakusa feels comfortable voicing such a humiliating demand. 

Atsumu’s telling him about the time he let an older man fuck him in a bar when he was only fifteen and Sakusa’s had enough of knowing him. “I want you to eat my ass again.”

“You’ll watch?” Atsumu blinks at him softly, eyes hazy with alcohol, a dopey smile on his face. “Cause last time you cheated and I was nice to give it to you anyway. I’m so nice to you.” He decides. “And you fucking hate that. You’re gonna throw me away.” He reaches to twirl a finger around the longest of Sakusa’s bangs. Sakusa jerks his head away to avoid it. Atsumu loves touching him everywhere, not always sexually. 

“You’d ghost me if you could. I’ve gotten so clingy,” Atsumu bemoans.

Sakusa makes a sour face, relenting. “I’ll watch.” 

It’s enough. Upon hearing it, Atsumu shoves him backwards on the bed and strips off Sakusa’s jeans, struggling with how they cling to his toned legs, skin tight. He stares at Sakusa’s naked body with embarrassing sincerity. 

The more they fuck, the harder of a time he has keeping his personality in check, and it worries Sakusa that he’s gentler now, breaking their unspoken agreement that they should never forget, despite the moans, they actually hate each other. This is meant to hurt.

“God,” Atsumu sighs, his fingers solving the maze of moles littering Sakusa’s chest. “I’m obsessed with you,” he confesses. He kisses Sakusa’s rib tattoo, nosing his face into Sakusa’s side, up to his armpit, sighing against his collarbone. “How’d I get so lucky? How’d you pick me—?”

“Stop talking,” Sakusa says, gripping his trashy, bleached hair and shoving his head towards the middle of his legs, where it belongs. 

Atsumu whines but obeys, slowly and unsurely, like he’d rather stay cuddling, which they never do for good reason. There’s no defined end to cuddling and the few times Atsumu initiates, curling up against him after a really rough fuck, it sounds like it hurts him because he’s clingy and needs more reassurance than Sakusa, who was the one getting shoved and degraded. 

“You’re being drunk and annoying. Focus or go to bed.”

Atsumu nods, physically shakes the smile off his face and snaps into himself with a cocky smirk, his best attempt yet. 

“Knew you loved me doing this,” he flirts, his voice changing. “You whined so much that first time. Told you it’d feel amazing. You’d let me do anything to you, hmm?” 

He looks up expectantly so Sakusa says, “Sure,” to move things along.

Atsumu yanks his hips up towards his mouth, angling his body so Sakusa’s shoulders dig into the bedding, the rest of him hovering in Atsumu’s hands. It’s not how they did it last time. 

(Last time Sakusa was on his hands and knees, face burning into his pillow, as Atsumu lapped at him slowly until Sakusa was forced to admit that this gross thing he said he’d never do could make him cum untouched.) 

Sakusa likes it more when he doesn’t have to gnaw his teeth to stop his legs from shaking—when Atsumu controls him like a puppet and Sakusa is helpless in his pleasure. 

Atsumu bends him in half, knees next to his face and makes a performance out of tasting him all over. The thin skin on the back of his knees. His sensitive thighs, marred with a dozen bites and hickeys Sakusa has stopped hiding from their teammates. He takes his sweet, little time getting to Sakusa’s sweet, little hole.

“Eyes on me.”

Sakusa obeys, forcing his lids open against the assault of pleasure that makes him curl into himself. He sees Atsumu drag his tongue from his backside towards his balls, nipping at them teasingly. Pulling the loose skin against his lips, threatening teeth. He opens wide enough to fit both.

It’s difficult to watch though Sakusa knows he’s as clean as they come and Atsumu could care less—he’s a pig. It’s difficult to watch because of how clearly Sakusa wants it. His body squirms for more, dick throbbing and leaking down his stomach—so much someone might mistake he has cum already. 

When Atsumu licks his entrance, the breath that escapes him is one of pure relief. He laughs, wants to thank him. “Mhmm,” he urges, cheeks hot. 

“You like it dirty,” Atsumu comments. He circles the tip of his tongue around the clenching hole. “More?”

“Yeah,” Sakusa admits shakily. “Make me cry today,” he works around the need to beg. 

Atsumu buries his face in his ass and works him into a quick frenzy, alternating between taunting and hungry, licking and sucking on his hole, fucking into him with his hot tongue. He’s salivating all over his thighs, making moaning noises like this is pleasurable for him. It’s the hottest thing Sakusa has witnessed.

“So good,” he whispers, wanting to reach for Atsumu’s sloppy face, to praise him.

He feels Atsumu smile on his skin before his tongue digs deeper. He pulls Sakusa’s body against his face as he thrusts in.

“Almost,” Sakusa warns, flailing to be put down so he can release. “I’m s—so close now.”

But Atsumu keeps him rolled up, moves his mouth so he’s sucking hickeys down his thighs and sinks two fingers inside Sakusa’s spit-soaked hole, fingering him, deep and fast. The pressure is unexpected. Sakusa keens, knees falling wider to take on more.

“Oh yeah—! I’m gonna—mhmm—I’m gonna—fuckfuckfuck—” 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Atsumu taunts above his whimpering. “If you scream, you might swallow it.”

In his pleasure-drunk brain, desperate for climax, it takes Sakusa a few seconds to realize what he’s talking about, how he’s positioned, dick, a shade of angry red, right above his face, dripping strings of precum onto his chest and neck.

“Wait—” he protests, thrashing in panic, whines turning into moans, as Atsumu deliberately rocks against his prostate, forcing his orgasm. “Too far—sto—op!!” 

Atsumu slides his fingers out immediately but it’s too late. Sakusa sprays his face, shaking through a ruined high, lips in a tight line to hold back the groan that scrapes its way up his throat. 

He feels the spurts of hot cum land on his cheeks, his mouth—wants to sob—the low so painful, he’s bordering on an anxiety attack at how pathetic and filthy he feels.

Atsumu lets his body drop, bursting into laughter because vile things amuse him and Sakusa’s sanity means absolutely fucking nothing. Sakusa can barely breathe and Atsumu’s giggling through his panic attack. 

Sakusa leans over the bed and empties his stomach in the trash can beside it.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Atsumu say. He rubs Sakusa’s back through the dry heaves that follow. Sakusa bats his hands away, disgusted at the thought of someone watching him do this. “I’m sorry, I went too far, I’m sorry, don’t hate me, I’m sorry.”

Sakusa spits what’s left on his mouth and slams back on the bed. Atsumu pulls him close and cradles him to his chest like he doesn’t give a fuck that Sakusa’s covered in spit, spent and yesterday’s dinner. 

“You’ve fucked me up,” Atsumu mumbles. “Nothing feels this good anymore. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Sakusa wants to laugh at the irony. He thinks he’s messed up. Sakusa has undone years of therapy in a matter of months, tasted horrors he’ll never scrape off his tongue, cum on his fucking face, all for this cockroach.

“Get off me. Go to your room.”

But Atsumu doesn’t budge. “Just tonight,” he tries. “I’ll do your laundry tomorrow.” Sakusa shakes him harder until he opens his eyes groggily. He has the nerve to smile. “Come on, don’t do this. For one night, can we not do this?” 

“I’m going to throw you off this bed, Miya. I’m warning you.” 

“Fine, fuck you!” Atsumu snaps, flinging himself up and stumbling towards the door. “I’m not your dildo, you dirty slut.”

“Wipe my shit off your mouth before you call me dirty,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu stomps towards the bed with his fists clenched. Sakusa tucks himself into the furthest corner, flinching. Atsumu drops back on top and curls into the pillow, shutting his eyes. “I’m gonna wash everything tomorrow, I promise.”

“You’re not staying,” Sakusa snaps. He crawls closer to pull at his clothes. 

“I don’t feel well,” Atsumu fights. “Can we just—” 

“No! We cannot. Now move. If you throw up on my bed—” 

“I won’t. Just drunk and sad. It’s one night. What does it matter, come on.”

Fine. He asked for it. Sakusa slides off the bed. He digs his fists into Atsumu’s shirt and drags his body across in one swift move, hauling him on the floor. 

He goes down hard, taking Sakusa with him.

They land in a heap—Atsumu’s head smashing against the bedside table—Sakusa knocking over the trash. There’s vomit everywhere. Atsumu looks concussed before the anger gets him. Sakusa screams in frustration, clutching his hair and rocking back and forth.

“Why are you so goddamn crazy?!” Atsumu yells on the way out. 

The drunk night scares them and they stay away from each other for as long as they can muster. A month of zero interactions, sitting as separate as the setting will allow.

Atsumu sets to him but won’t call his name. Sakusa’s relegated to: “Outside!” It’s childish and ridiculous like Atsumu himself. Sakusa rolls his eyes and gives him no sign that he’s terribly affected. If he wants to play stupid, then he’ll stupidly beg to be taken back. 

In reality, he suffers, stews seeing Atsumu around others and hates how his body craves sex, his sex, prickling with the urge to be erased. 

(Especially on bad nights when he can’t stop self-loathing because he brought this vice upon himself and can’t seem to quit it despite how crazy it makes him.) 

The insomnia is unbearable, made worse by the fact that Atsumu’s next door. He’d come running back if Sakusa just asked and Sakusa wouldn’t have to sleep alone anymore. Atsumu would fuck him into forgetting.

Showers help. A week in, he can’t take it, scalds the water, squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to orgasm, withdrawing his hand the second it’s done and swirling down the drain. 

It’s better when he masturbates but he can only finish twice with Atsumu forcing him too and once is never enough anymore, leaves him empty and aggravated. Atsumu knows he’s greedy, pushes himself past his physical limits to make sure he keeps going until Sakusa has his fill. He never finishes first—it’s the loveliest thing about him. 

Sakusa doesn’t want to start missing him. 

Everyone goes home for New Year. Sakusa’s in the apartment by himself, pondering his loneliness and if it’s worth doing anything about it. It’s during celebrations and his birthday, that he has his annual reminders of spending yet another year in a similar state of isolation, how he exists around others but never fully connects.

Atsumu has a twin so he’s never alone. He has close friends and ex-teammates. He’s one of those people that will always have. 

Atsumu and his twin return to the dorms early, surprising Sakusa with their sudden presence. They barge in with food and inside jokes, cook and catch up, while Sakusa hides in his room, questioning if he can get away with pretending he went home after all. 

Late into their evening, Osamu asks Atsumu about Sakusa after countless of questions flirting around the topic. Sakusa, who has been finding it impossible to do anything but spy on their intimacy, tucks his head underneath the comforter like a child. 

“Still not speaking?” Osamu asks.

“We speak,” Atsumu hesitates. “Nothing else. It’s too difficult. He’s… really difficult.”

“And you’re not?” Osamu laughs. But Atsumu isn’t. He’s the easiest person Sakusa has dealt with, transparent with every emotion and intention. Atsumu is real with him.

“I am,” Atsumu says. “That’s why we can’t. It won’t work between us.”

“You want it to?” Osamu pushes. The question hangs in the air, unanswered.

Sakusa holds his piss until they’ve both gone to bed.  

When he exits the bathroom, Atsumu stands before him, half-asleep, in tattered pajama pants that sit low on his hips. He doesn’t look shocked to see him. 

“Thought you’d be home, Miya,” Sakusa fakes.

Atsumu yawns without covering his mouth. “Yeah, I missed you,” he chuckles, probably joking. Sakusa’s heart lurches. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. You haven’t eaten,” Atsumu notices. “I’ll warm some up for you.”

Sakusa’s starving and the thought of homemade food beats out whatever excuse he can find to torture himself.

Atsumu sits with him as he eats and that small gesture after a week of eating alone, feeling pathetic, almost breaks him. 

The chopsticks shake with his hands. Atsumu gives him privacy, looks outside at the snow, busies himself with his phone. He doesn’t make unnecessary small talk to pretend they’re okay, doesn’t say that he wants to be either. He cleans Sakusa’s plate when he’s done. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” Sakusa admits.

They make love three times, waking from naps to go again like it’s the last night of their lives. Most of it soft with sleep and longing like homesickness healed.  

They cuddle while fucking, fuck while cuddling, push into each other’s bodies, and kiss endlessly, properly, fully, speaking nonsense into each other’s tongues. 

Atsumu sits him on his lap, let’s him have control, guides him through the tough parts with warm hands and firm words, helps him let himself want it.

“Atsu,” Sakusa calls him for the first time because it’s new and his alone.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu murmurs praise against the base of his neck. 

It’s the third round and they’re too shaky to do anything but spoon. Atsumu pushes into him from behind more an excuse to stay attached than real sex. Sakusa wants to feel him inside. 

“Do you know how much I care about you?” Atsumu purrs.

Sakusa’s too sated to fight it, swears he will tomorrow but tonight he’s too sleepy, too happy.

“Take me back,” Atsumu pleads. Sakusa falls asleep to his fingers ghosting over his skin and tugging gently at his hair. “Please.”

It takes waking up the next morning at six am to shut the blinds for Sakusa to realize Atsumu slept over. They fucked, and kissed, and Atsumu is still here. Sakusa lays in bed, watching him breathe, and knows this is the last time they can do this. 

It’s clockwork, their chemistry, and once they’ve relapsed into the trap of needing each other, even the pretense of the chase is too cumbersome a front.  

Atsumu won’t fight, wants held hands, kisses without sex and in public in front of others. He wants always, constantly, together. 

Makes no secret he’s falling so it falls on Sakusa to stop them before Atsumu says it and it’s too late to take it back. But it’s excruciating undoing what has been set in motion, akin to swimming upcurrent or recovering a badly-received serve that ricocheted so far off the court even the second bump needs help getting it over the net.

Bokuto becomes Sakusa’s second bump—a mutually-beneficial arrangement because ever since Akaashi requested they open up their relationship, Bokuto has been itching for a chance to prove him wrong. 

Bokuto loves Akaashi so there’s no room for him to love Sakusa. Sakusa imagines the jealousy would lead to some form of hate sex but Bokuto’s a teddybear, prefers missionary and wants to kiss all the way through. He clings to Sakusa’s skin like sweat, never speaks a word, not even Akaashi’s name or something equally humiliating. 

It’s terrible, scarring—ultimately good for him. Sakusa needs to remember this is what he used to hate and for good reason. 

They’ve slept together two and a half times when Bokuto miscalculates and tells Atsumu.

They’re on a break and Sakusa’s far away, filling up his water bottle but he knows it’s done, finally, because the drop in Atsumu’s face—like he might cry in front of everyone and the coach—is unmistakable. 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he asks Sakusa in the locker room. “Why is it true?”

“Focus on the game.” Sakusa avoids his glossy eyes. He tucks his hands in his jacket pockets because they haven’t stopped shaking all day. “All your sets were low today. We have a match tomorrow and you’re going to lose if you keep focusing on me.”

Atsumu fucks him in his own room that night. He’s bruising rough, slamming into him until the bed frame digs into the wall hard enough to break through the plaster, raining white flakes on top of their sweaty bodies.  

He calls Sakusa names, promises to fuck him so good no one else will ever be good enough, promises he’ll stop if Sakusa keeps doing this to him, promises to fill him up until he’s leaking Atsumu’s claim for everyone to see. All in the same wet breath. 

“Please, please, please please,” Sakusa cries, clawing his back bloody to lift his body off the mattress and press his cock against Atsumu’s belly since Atsumu refuses to touch him. 

“Tsumu,” he begs. Atsumu whines at the nickname.

“Scream,” he pants against Sakusa’s lips. “Let him know exactly who you belong to.”

“You,” Sakusa blurts, yanking him down for a kiss filled with teeth and blood. He had missed this more than he could imagine. Now that he has it again, he will do anything to keep it, keep him—but only like this, only angry, and that can be okay, he can allow himself that.

Atsumu’s hand fists his hair, his eyes black. “Tell me to stop because I’m hurting you.” 

Sakusa wouldn’t dream of it. 

The condom breaks. Atsumu’s thrusts stutter before ramping up into an animalistic frenzy. 

“Oh shit, oh fuck, so good, you feel good—the condom?” he guesses. 

“I know,” Sakusa cuts him off, digging heels into his back to snap his hips forward. “Fuck it.” 

Atsumu gapes. “Baby,” he whispers, “Are you sure? I’ll put a new—”

“Stop stuttering and fuck me like you hate me.”

Atsumu nods feverishly, mouth open. He pulls out to discard what’s left of the rubber and plows into him raw, won’t shut up with the baby: “my baby, baby boy, pretty baby.”

And Sakusa, caught up in the moment, whispers, “I love you.”

Atsumu shoves his face in his neck and fills his ass before Sakusa has a chance to get there, dangling on the precipice of the best orgasm of his life when Atsumu pulls out, whimpering in pain as Sakusa fights to keep him inside, make it last longer.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu winces, arms shaking in effort to hold his sweaty body from collapsing on top of Sakusa. “It’s the first time without—” 

Sakusa has the high punched out of him. He’s not ready to go back. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Atsumu wipes his face. “I can finish you off with my mouth. Are you ok?”

Sakusa shoves him on his back, throws a leg over him to sit on his face. He thrusts into Atsumu’s mouth, one hand around his throat to ease his cock deeper, not giving a shit that Atsumu has yet to catch his breath. 

He finishes without warning. Atsumu chokes on the cum and it spills all over his chin. He looks debauched. 

“Oh, that’s gross,” he says.

“You have made me—” Sakusa protests. 

Atsumu cuts him off, laughing. “Not you. You’re—you’re leaking cum on my face, my own cum.”

Sakusa recoils. He shoves himself against the wall, looking down towards the trickle of white running down his thighs. It’s the most foul thing he has ever witnessed and it worries him that he was the one responsible. Atsumu didn’t make him, has stopped doing that for a while now. This is all on Sakusa. It’s his fault. 

Atsumu wipes his face and mouth on the sheets. There are tear stains on his cheeks. Snot. His lips look swollen. Bruise marks on his neck. He’s hurt. Sakusa feels himself start hyperventilating. 

“I’m fine.” Atsumu smiles, noticing Sakusa’s face. “Don’t worry. Nothing of you will ever put me off. I promise you that much. Fucking piss on me if you want.” 

And that is so much worse, he needs to take that back, how can you promise someone you’ll never reject a single part of them, how can he make this normal?

They don’t talk about it. Sakusa blinks back vertigo. Atsumu cleans him up. They don’t talk about it. 

“I don’t want you fucking him,” Atsumu says when Sakusa gets dressed to leave.

Sakusa shrugs. “No one said we were exclusive.”

“I’m saying it.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“It works like this,” Atsumu says. “If you keep fucking him, you won’t fuck me again.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Sakusa scoffs, heading for the door. Atsumu corners him against it. 

“You fuck him, you can fucking forget about me—look at me.” He cups Sakusa’s face. “You touch him, Kiyoomi, we’re done for real this time.” 

“Let’s see about that.” Sakusa shakes him off.

Atsumu stalks him to his bedroom, not bothering to get dressed. There are bite marks on his skin. His back is bleeding. He grabs at Sakusa’s arm. “I’m so serious.”

“Fine.”

Atsumu’s in the bathroom with him. “If you wanna mess with me when we fuck because you like me better when I’m pissed off, that’s one thing but—”

“I said fine, Atsumu!” Sakusa snaps, wanting it all to stop long enough for him to think.  

He enters the shower with Atsumu right behind him, hogging up the hot water. Atsumu hugs him and Sakusa allows it because it’s the only way the water can get to them both and he’s tired and cold. 

Atsumu rubs a washcloth down his body. Sakusa runs his fingers down the scratches on Atsumu’s back, wondering if they hurt. He never complains. 

“You have to make me special,” Atsumu says, bringing their faces together. “Because I can’t keep doing this if I’m not special. If I’m not your exception, the only one you can stand to do this with.”

Sakusa doesn’t know what he’s asking for and thinks him blind if he can’t see by now he has ruined them both and they’re stuck in this spiral for the long haul. Sakusa can’t imagine himself with anyone else or without him.

“You don’t have to love me but no one fucks you like I do,” Atsumu begs.

Atsumu catches them going at it the next week and it’s not Sakusa’s intention. 

It’s imperative he fucks others. To stay sane. Fill gaps. Keep from thinking about Atsumu and caring, and losing to these newfound feelings of fear and jealousy every time Atsumu flirts with someone in front of him and Sakusa burns in shame, crumbles like his chest is made of paper. 

I love you tortures him, threatening to escape at the most random times. Useless, insignificant moments when Atsumu does something entirely normal and Sakusa can’t stop his mind from needing to blurt, I love you, and the more he shoves it down, the worse it wants to erupt. I love you, because you didn’t say it back. I love you, because you should have acknowledged me saying it; you don’t know what this means for me to love you. I love you, because you made me make you my priority and I can’t stop wanting to love you. 

He’s always been one-track-minded and with Atsumu, he has latched onto something whose end he doesn’t want to see, but will surely come and will surely hurt. 

Bokuto’s balls deep and judging by his erratic thrusts, almost there when Atsumu—who was supposed to be at the gym—kicks Sakusa’s door open, letting the handle smash into the wall. 

Bokuto yelps, tugging the sheets on top of Sakusa’s body to preserve his dignity. He looks between the two of them increasingly concerned because Atsumu approaches instead of leaving like any normal person might have.

“Out,” Atsumu orders. 

“Ummm,” Bokuto sputters. “Can you give us some privacy maybe?”  

“Can you stop fucking my boyfriend maybe?” Atsumu shoots back.

“Oh,” Bokuto breathes. He turns to Sakusa, who glares at the ceiling, adamant to not live this moment. 

Bokuto fumbles with the sheets, trying to figure out the best way to go about… exiting. Sakusa feels him softening. “I—I didn’t… know—realize, put it together that—um.”  

The squelching sound of him pulling out is mortifying. Atsumu looks ready to fight. “Dude, get off him. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Bokuto scrambles off the bed, butt-naked, hands over his dick. He exits the room, leaving behind suffocating silence. 

The bed dips with Atsumu’s weight. Sakusa needs to deal with this. 

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he starts.

“No, you’re just a fucking slut.”

“Thought you liked me like that,” Sakusa smirks without humor. “Thought I was your little slut.”

Atsumu’s hand slides up his shin to rest on his knee. He pulls Sakusa’s thighs apart, spreading them. Sakusa resists on instinct until Atsumu has his knees flat against the mattress.  

“You can’t get hard with him, can you?” he knows. Sakusa only ever feels safe enough with Atsumu. “Look.”

Sakusa will not, adamantly glares at the ceiling. He doesn’t have to look to know he’s more aroused now than he has ever been with Bokuto, that his fucked up system feeds off of everything Atsumu does to him. 

Atsumu slides his hand down the inside of his thigh towards his swollen dick. 

“I know who your body wants,” he says, pulling his touch. “Who do you?”

“Just fuck me already,” Sakusa whispers, tired of trying to guess how they’ll dance around the obvious to get to the only thing they seem to do well and without pain.

“No,” Atsumu says. 

It’ll be a fight then, mean sex.

Sakusa looks at him through clumped lashes, as he pulls his knees to his chest to show off his gaping hole, stretched and lubed. He lowers his voice to a challenging purr that wavers with his meltdown. “N—no?”

Atsumu looks down, jealousy and disgust mixing with the way he always desires Sakusa, breathlessly and always . It’s not enough this time. The shame is just shame. Atsumu isn’t protecting him from it, telling him it’s okay. He’s actually repulsed but he was the last person Sakusa could trust not to be. And he promised. 

“No, Kiyoomi.” He stands. 

Sakusa jerks up, grabbing onto his wrist before he’s out of reach. Atsumu’s surprisingly easy to keep.

“I told you,” he says. Sakusa grips tighter, nails digging in his wrist. “I made it very clear but you think I’m a joke,” he chokes. “And I’m starting to feel like that doing this with you. It’s fucked up.”

“So what?” Sakusa blurts, pulling. “So fucking what? It’s always been like this and you were fine with it before. You thought what we did back then was healthy? You came just the same from treating me like shit. From seeing me fucked up. You don’t get to be moral now.” 

Atsumu swallows, avoiding his eyes. “I know. But I thought... we were done with that. When we took a break.”

“Done with what?”

“Pretending the sex is enough,” Atsumu mumbles.  

Sakusa shouldn’t be fighting him on this. It’s what he wanted, the inevitable end. He can say he saw it through to the end. “What, you’re bored of me?” 

Atsumu sits back down. The hand Sakusa isn’t clutching like a lifeline pushes the hair off Sakusa’s eyes. “I’m in love with you, Kiyoomi.” Sakusa blinks back tears. “And you know I am—and I know fucking nothing, yes. I keep saying ‘you know’ because I don’t fucking know, okay? I don’t know what you want from me anymore. You don’t let me know you.”

“There’s nothing,” Sakusa says. “Nothing to know. I’m nothing. This doesn’t have to be a thing.”

“You’re not nothing,” Atsumu insists. Sakusa curls his fist on the bedding. 

“So you’re in love with someone you don’t know?” he mutters. It’s unfair. Sakusa loves him back, but in his defense, he’s not here pretending it changes anything.

“Do you listen to yourself?” Atsumu asks gently. Fuck this guy. Fuck him for forgetting. Fuck him for making his name a thing Sakusa wants to keep hearing, not something Sakusa flinches at. No one calls him that. If they do they’re too close to hurting him.

“Why did you fuck me that first time?” Sakusa asks, looking at nothing but the sheets. 

Atsumu fumbles with his words. “I mean, I—I thought you were hot.”

“Keep fucking me cause I’m hot then.” Sakusa shrugs.

“Why did you fuck me?” Atsumu asks. 

“To punish myself.” Atsumu sucks in a sharp breath. “I can’t stand it when it’s kind.” 

It’s not entirely untrue. He can’t stand not deserving it. It’s not Atsumu’s fault either, it really could be anyone and Sakusa would hate it just the same. But it’s easier to hate him. For Atsumu to hate him back. 

Atsumu says it’s over. 

Sakusa wants to believe him but it’s not that simple. After all, they’ve been over before, each breakup barreling them closer to the next time being the actual one—not because it sticks but because it takes being together to actually break up. This is as together as they’ve ever been, and apparently ever will be. As together as Sakusa has tried to be with anyone, can’t say it has scarred him either, but he’d rather not be together with anyone else but Atsumu. 

That might have been Atsumu’s point, in hindsight, but “It’s over, Kiyoomi.” is still in full effect. 

“When are you leaving tonight?” Sakusa asks, rubbing a towel on his wet curls, freshly-showered and fresh-faced to save the day. 

Bokuto waits for Atsumu to answer. They’re playing video games on the couch. Sakusa doesn’t think himself worthy of a brawl but he doesn’t expect them to be so relaxed about it either. 

(Bokuto apologized; he didn’t know. Akaashi has him fucked up. Atsumu said it doesn’t matter—that he thought they were more, but they aren’t and won’t be, and Bokuto can fuck Sakusa if he wants to because “Sakusa is a good lay.” Bokuto doesn’t—agree and want to fuck him. So it’s settled between them.)

“You can come but know that I’m going specifically to fuck someone else,” Atsumu answers bluntly, jamming buttons on his controller. 

His character mounts a barrage on the unsuspecting foe. Sakusa watches him overpower Bokuto with ease. The few times they play together, Atsumu gets so upset Sakusa keeps beating him. Sakusa doesn’t tell him he reads up on strategies online, practices when Atsumu’s not around. 

“I didn’t ask what your intentions were,” Sakusa says. “I asked when you were leaving. I assume I can tag along since it’s a public nightclub and we’re still teammates so you’re gonna have to stand being around me, Miya.”

What he’s essentially saying is, let’s keep playing. We’ll get over this. I’m willing to get over it. I’m willing to be punished appropriately so you can get over it too. Punish me.

“Whatever,” Atsumu says.

Bokuto chuckles nervously. “We’ll all go. As a group. I’ll ask Shouyou-kun. Thomas mentioned clubbing too. It’ll be fun. Team bonding.”

“Sounds perfect,” Atsumu snips, as the KO!! flashes on the screen. Sakusa lingers to see if he’ll look back now that he’s not preoccupied but Atsumu restarts the match.

Atsumu’s solution for anything remotely complicated is to get blackout drunk and go clubbing, hookup with someone and pretend that’s self-esteem. So they go clubbing, and Sakusa joins, and now Atsumu is hitting on some person that’s not Sakusa, and Sakusa has to watch, and tolerate it, because it’s the right thing to do. Sakusa fucked up and the seppuku of not-so-casual hookups is seeing the man he likes flaunt how easily he can get someone else.  

Sakusa can bear it.

But he can’t. Physically, because the club is stifling on a Saturday and his teammates shove beside him in a table too small (no reservations means no booths). And emotionally, because Atsumu has touched this new kid three times already, on his waist, on his arm, on his hair, curly blond ringlets—the thing to break Sakusa’s begrudging silence.

“What should I do?” he asks Bokuto, who’s drunk enough to turn the rest of his night into a texting war with his boyfriend.

Atsumu is actually going to sleep with this person. In the home they share, the bed Sakusa was only allowed in once to see he sleeps with a plush and loves his brother more than he lets on. “I don’t wanna sit here and do nothing but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

What’s the proper code for winning back a boy who called himself your boyfriend?

“About what?” Bokuto says.

His eyes must follow Sakusa’s gaze to where Atsumu is giving the boy the eyes. A dark room and hundreds of people between them and Sakusa still knows exactly what they look like, syrupy and lucent, with lashes too dark to go with his hair.

“Ah, just let it be.” Bokuto waves him off. “He’s gonna blow off steam and forget all about it. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m thinking I should fight for him,” Sakusa says, barely listening.

“No, don’t fight him,” Bokuto misunderstands. “Coach will be so mad if we get thrown out. Can you even punch someone? If you fight him, I’m gonna have to fight him too so don’t fight him. We’re all gonna have to fight. This is a team.”

Atsumu laughs at a joke. He leans his forearms on the bar, tucks his face close, angling his chin. He’s going to kiss him. He’s kissing him. 

He had planned on leaving this for when they were home but the opportunity presents itself and Sakusa stomps towards it without thinking twice. The runt is going to the bathroom. Atsumu fiddles with his phone.  

Sakusa appears before him like the ghost of bad decisions past. “You’ve made your point. I’m jealous and possessive. Can we stop?”

“Last I checked you did more than kiss,” Atsumu says, bored, despite Sakusa admitting to him what he surely wants to hear—that he was right, that Sakusa cares, a lot, and wants this, a lot, wants him, Atsumu, a relationship if that’s what it takes to not to have to lose him.

“So you wanna fuck someone, is that it?” he snaps. “You’ll fuck him. Then you’ll be happy?”

“If you leave me alone, I’ll be happy,” Atsumu says, sipping on his drink—rum and coke, his third, Sakusa has been counting and watching him for any signs that he’s uncomfortable with the way the kid keeps touching his back, inching lower every time he pretends to have to save Atsumu from a person walking through. 

“Don’t lie,” Sakusa says. “I’m ready to discuss options—”

“I’m not lying, Sakusa.” The name sounds foreign when he says it with his rasp and his accent. “I would be soooo happy to never deal with you again—” His eyes dart to a spot behind Sakusa’s head. “He’s coming back. Go away. Stop ruining my night. You said you wouldn’t if I let you come and here you are, looking fucking fancy, fuck off, fuck someone else.”

“Ok, but—”

“Hmm, I still hear a little bitch speaking,” Atsumu snaps childishly.

“Ok,” Sakusa resigns. “Let me know if you don’t feel well.”

“I feel terrible,” Atsumu blurts, laughing. “I feel like fucking shit. I feel like my boyfriend just broke up with me and cheated on me with my best friend and I have to play in a goddamn team with them.”

“You’re cheating on me now,” Sakusa tries pathetically when he knows it’s not the same and he knows letting this happen will never make up for it. 

It’s a cowardly way of making things right. But ok, he’s a coward.

“We’re not together now,” Atsumu says. “And we weren’t then, whatever, go away.”

“Ok,” Sakusa repeats numbly, reaching for Atsumu to push the bangs off his sweaty forehead, carding through his hair so it’s slicked back and decent, considering how fast he has sweat all the product off and looks deranged. 

Atsumu clasps his wrist as he’s pulling to leave. “No, you can’t fucking do that to me—”

“Your hair looks like shit,” Sakusa says. 

“So what? You give a fuck about me now? Look how much you give a fuck? Is that it? Is that the game we’re playing today? Hey, everyone!” he screams—a few people nearby give weird looks but it’s otherwise too loud to matter. “Look at Sakusa Kiyoomi being so sweet and gentle with me. A fucking saint,” Atsumu spits but he has yet to let go.

Sakusa has nothing. He hadn’t thought it that deep. It wasn’t a manipulative move, simply instinct. 

“Uhhhm, am I interrupting a thing?” the kid says, forcing an awkward laugh. 

Sakusa won’t do this with an audience. “Let go,” he asks. Atsumu loosens his grip. “I’ll wait for you. I’m not leaving.”

Atsumu snaps from the daze, frowning. “You should. Leave. Or actually—” he shoves the stool back, sending it flying towards the bar. “I will.” 

He shoves past Sakusa to disappear into the crowd.

“Hey, Atsumu,” the boy calls after him.

Sakusa follows. “Miya—”

Atsumu turns without warning. Sakusa stops in time but the people behind him don’t, shoving him into Atsumu’s chest. Atsumu pushes him back. They’re in the middle of the pit, the last place in the whole world Sakusa wants to exist in.

“I’m going outside to puke my guts out,” Atsumu snaps. “Interested in watching?” 

“Lead the way,” Sakusa says stubbornly. 

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Omi. Let a guy die.” 

Sakusa keeps pace, reaching for his jacket to not lose him through the crowd. Atsumu keeps tucking it away so Sakusa grabs his arm instead and yanks him back forcefully.

“I’m not letting you be drunk alone,” he says. “And I’m not letting you ‘die’ so stop acting up.”

He sees Atsumu sifting through appropriate reactions, slowed down by the drinks, surprise at first, then warmth, immediately hurt, rage and his usual smarmy mocking. 

“Entitled little shit, aren’t ya?” he says. 

“Very.”

They barely make it out of the door before Atsumu’s doubling over to throw up against the side of the building. All liquid, fountaining out of him. Sakusa looks away, wrinkling his nose. 

“Touch the back of your tongue,” he advises, noticing Atsumu doesn’t sound done, hovering between his last burst and whatever’s stuck up his throat. Atsumu shoves his fingers inside his mouth and gags like a kitten.

“I’ll do it for you,” Sakusa says to get this night over with. 

Atsumu gives him an odd look, his fingers partially in his mouth, tongue lolling out. He looks cute. “What kind of weird shit are you into?” 

“You,” Sakusa sighs, stepping forward and unbuttoning his shirt to pull up his sleeve. “Open.”

“Get away from me.” Atsumu scrambles away, wiping his face on his arm. “You touched the door coming out.”

“And you had your tongue down a stranger’s throat,” Sakusa snips.

“Doesn’t mean I wanna lick the door handle, you crazy person.” 

Sakusa shrugs, not mentioning that Atsumu has been touching the bar all night and never once went to the bathroom to wash his hands so he’s already fucked. The pool of throw up makes its way across the street and towards the gutter. 

Atsumu skips over it, walking towards the nearby bus station to slump on the bench. “Call a cab, let’s go home.”

They sit side by side. It’s very cinematic. Atsumu has never looked scruffier. 

Sakusa sends Bokuto a text and settles for watching the car graphic on the map make its way towards them. Atsumu has his eyes closed, neck leaning back. He might have passed out.

“Would ya kiss me like this?” he asks out of the blue. 

“Would you want me without my issues?” Sakusa shoots back

“Would you want yourself?” Atsumu says. “Would you want me if I didn’t want you with your issues? We can go back and forth like this all night—are ya gonna kiss me or not?”

Sakusa considers it. But he can smell the sour stench of vomit without having to lean in. “I’d rather lick the door handle,” he mutters.

Atsumu snorts, shaking his head. “That was a test.”

“I know,” Sakusa says. 

“And ya still failed.”

“I’m probably going to keep failing too, if you keep needing to test me,” Sakusa says, rolling a cigarette bud with his shoe before crushing it underneath. 

Atsumu sighs gravely for a full two seconds. He lowers his head between his knees like he might throw up again. Makes a gross noise in the back of his throat before spitting a large glob of saliva onto the pavement. 

“I’ll try though,” Sakusa decides, glancing towards him.

“Try what?” 

“You’re right it’s not enough,” Sakusa says. “I’ll try to be enough for you the way you’re enough for me when I let you be.”

“Meaning?” Atsumu challenges him, raising an eyebrow. 

Sakusa shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“There’s something you don’t?” Atsumu acts shocked. He’s provoking. He wants a proper relationship but he keeps fighting—and itching for what’s easy: anger, hate, hurting, others and yourself—knowing Sakusa will take the bait. 

Sakusa opens and closes his mouth. “Meaning I am willing to put in effort, massive effort if that’s what’s needed—

“Great,” Atsumu sarcastically mutters. 

Sakusa ignores him. “—to continue being with you. I’m willing to do a lot of things for you.”

Atsumu cracks a half-assed grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ain’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, you piece of shit.”

“You?” Sakusa asks. “Are you willing?”

Atsumu shrugs. “I hate you.”

“I don’t care,” Sakusa steals his line. “Yes or no?”

Atsumu laughs, hearing it. Sakusa looks at him, his flushed cheeks, his dumb hair, his wet mouth. There’s food off the side of his lip, vomited food, he reminds himself. But he reaches for it nonetheless, wiping it off with his thumb. And it’s not excruciating. Unpleasant but bearable, livable, life. 

“Sorry,” Atsumu flushes, pulling his face away. There was a time Atsumu would have loved this, found ways to rub it in his face. 

Sakusa lets his arm drop back to his lap. “You don’t disgust me.”

“You’re gonna spoil me with all these compliments,” Atsumu says.

“That’s what you told me.”

“Huh?”

“You said nothing I do will ever put you off,” Sakusa recites back. Atsumu blinks, clearly trying to recall. Maybe he doesn’t or maybe he never meant it and it was all sex talk. 

“It’s the same for me too,” Sakusa says, rubbing his fingers together where the phantom vomit would linger with anyone else. 

“That’s called love, Omi,” Atsumu says, laying back against the bench, face towards the sky. “At least in your weird language it is.”

“I do love you,” Sakusa confesses, thinking about their hands touching, would be nice. 

“I know.”