Story's on archive so you can read here (smut)

Atsumu x

Sometimes, Osamu hates his brother.

Oh, he loves him too, perhaps—definitely—more than one should love their twin brother. But beneath all that love, all that adoration, all that lust, there is also annoyance, and frustration.

And the need to press Atsumu into the nearest wall and fuck him silly.

Osamu can't believe Atsumu is wearing a skirt.

It's their old volleyball team's reunion, and Atsumu has had the absolute audacity to show up in a skirt.

It's short and pink, and he's paired it with a black top so tight it clings to his body, his muscular chest tightly hugged by the fabric. And thigh-high black socks.

Perhaps all of Osamu's sins are finally catching up with him; perhaps this is hell.

Worst of all is that Osamu's late; that he had no idea that he had to prepare for this. He and Atsumu don't live in different cities anymore; they got a shared flat about a year ago. Now that they're in their thirties, that Atsumu isn't a pro volleyball player anymore, it is a dream they were finally able to let come true.

To the incessant mocking of their friends, of course—who moves back in with their brother at age thirty-six, after all.

Usually, that means Osamu and Atsumu leave for social events together. But today Osamu has had to work late, and this is the result: him, standing like a gaping fish in front of the booth in which their old volleyball team is sitting, Atsumu, ever the diligent nice boy who stands up to greet people—not actually, he just wants to see Osamu squirm—before him, wearing a skirt and thigh-high socks and one of his unbearable smirks, because the asshole knows exactly what he's doing to Osamu.

"You made it," Kita, who's also gotten up to greet him, says, his motives far nobler. The rest of the team choruses the greeting.

"'Course I did," Osamu says, still feeling stunned. He slides into the booth after Atsumu, next to Atsumu, who looks very happy with himself. The absolute asshole.

It is both the biggest luck and biggest tragedy of Osamu's life that Atsumu feels confident enough to wear skirts in public.

This is not the first time Osamu is dealing with this and it won't be the last, but it certainly never gets easier on him.

He grips Atsumu's thigh under the table, his hand firm and strong, and from the expression flitting over Atsumu's face for a split-second, he knows that Atsumu almost moaned at the touch.

Atsumu loves wearing skirts, looking feminine and delectable, Osamu knows that. Atsumu also loves this: Osamu, gripping his thigh firmly, almost losing control at the sight of his brother in a skirt.

They are both fucked up in the worst of ways, the best of ways.

Everything Atsumu does drives Osamu crazy; everything Osamu does turns Atsumu into a desperate mess.

It won't be long and Atsumu's cock will be leaking in the confines of the lace panties he's no doubt wearing under the skirt. If Osamu knows anything about his brother, it's that Atsumu is definitely wearing panties. That thought does absolutely nothing to help calm him down and focus more on his surroundings.

Fortunately for him, nobody else seems to be noticing his plight, not even Suna who seems to have a radar for people experiencing misery or frustration, be that sexual or otherwise. Suna is actually snickering at something Hitoshi's said—either he made a joke, or—more likely—Suna is just making fun of him.

Osamu has missed these people, hasn't seen the majority of them in quite a while. Out of everyone here, Atsumu, Suna and Aran are the only people he sees with a degree of regularity.