Atsumu wakes up with a sunbeam across his face and pulsating heat between his thighs. In his arms slumbers human furnace Sakusa Kiyoomi, not a scrap of clothing on him and his skin tacky with a night's worth of sweat. Their bed smells faintly of sex. Their bed. Atsumu closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, filling his belly with the feeling. He'd get up, close the curtains so he can get back to sleep, but he doesn't want to wake Kiyoomi. No, more selfishly--he doesn't want to leave this bed for a second.
He peels open one eye and peers at Kiyoomi. His hair, ordinarily gelled and combed into perfect waves, splays across the pillow in glossy disarray. Love bites litter the pale curve of his neck and muscular upper back. With Atsumu's arm looped around his middle, Kiyoomi curls in on himself, spine curving so that their mismatched heights fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Kiyoomi likes being the little spoon. He won't admit it, but the important thing is that Atsumu knows he does. Atsumu knows a whole lot of these little things by now. He fears he'll never learn the complete catalogue, but hell if he won't die trying.
Atsumu lifts his head off the pillow and brushes aside the locks of hair on Kiyoomi's neck, revealing smooth skin and more evidence of the last night's activities. Eyes shut, he noses against it and presses a lingering kiss to his nape. Atsumu's breathing deepens. His cock stiffens as the seconds pass, nudging into the cushiony undersides of Kiyoomi's thighs. The arm around Kiyoomi's middle strokes his waist lovingly, circling the thumb where he knows Kiyoomi is ticklish. Part of Atsumu wants nothing more than to abandon pretext and rut against him just like this, use Kiyoomi's sleep-soft, animal body to chase a release already rearing its head beneath his skin. But he won't. Another part of him slowly awakens.
He shifts up onto his elbow and peers over Kiyoomi's sleeping form. He runs his fingers feather-light up Kiyoomi's ribs and neck, finally meeting his jaw and cradling it gently, tilting him slightly so that Atsumu's lips meet his pulse. Atsumu kisses the sensitive area and the purple-red bruise beside it, and it's only then that Kiyoomi emits a groan from deep in his throat. Atsumu's heart flutters.
"What are you doing," Kiyoomi mumbles without opening his eyes, hardly parting his lips. Sleep throws a layer of gravel over his velvety voice. The lips that Atsumu loves so much are cracked and swollen, like they've gone through battle. Last night, Kiyoomi sucked him off in the kitchen. There wasn't any time to get to the bedroom, he said. He had to do it.
"Saying good morning," Atsumu hums against Kiyoomi's jaw, hoping it tickles. "Rise 'n' shine, sweetheart."
"Like hell," Kiyoomi grumbles. Atsumu huffs a laugh, but Kiyoomi goes on: "Not morning anymore, either."
"Hm?"
"Window faces west."
Atsumu glances at the window in question, where the part in the curtains reveals a narrow slice of blue, cloudless sky and the city below. "Fuck, you're right."
"Duh," Kiyoomi says sleepily, shifting as he nestles into a more comfortable position. His lashes flutter, and his lips part on a yawn.
"Think we can still make it to practice?"
"No." It's a Sunday. They don't have practice on Sundays.
Thinking on it, Atsumu swears he might've glimpsed the red glow of the sunrise when they last did it; but he was too far gone--too lost in Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi's eyes, the feel of his body--for the implication of how much time had passed to register. Thighs shaking like he'd played five sets, Kiyoomi whimpered nonstop as he fucked himself on Atsumu's aching cock and wrenched a last orgasm out of them both. His eyes watered, and a few stray tears tracked down his cheeks; he wiped them away with hands balled into furious fists. "Tsumu, Tsumu," he cried out again and again, and when he came he fisted his hands in his sweaty hair and sobbed like it was being torn out of him. Unconsciously, Atsumu makes a low noise, like a growl.
