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It starts with a normal day in senior year. Just like any other day, they’re having lunch, Atsumu sandwiched in between Osamu and Suna, an optimal place to steal their food, and sub-optimal to run when they try to stab him with their chopsticks. Gin is running late as he has a meeting with the guidance counselor. It’s a good day, the sun is shining, and when Osamu opens up his text messages, there’s a picture of boobs in his inbox.
It’s from a girl he had biology with last term. They’re on good terms, the boobs actually come as a bit of a surprise. He wonders what prompted them. They’re nice tits, objectively, round and plump, like meat buns. The girl is holding her school shirt in between her teeth, one arm pushing one tit against the other. He appreciates the artistic take. The text above it is suggestive enough to make anyone blush and she ended it with a flower emoji.
‘What’cha looking at?’ Atsumu asks, leaning into his personal space and dipping into Osamu’s bento.
Osamu shoves him away, turning the screen off and giving his brother’s hand a slap that has the piece of fruit he stole slip from the chopsticks. It lands in Atsumu’s glass with a satisfying splash and the total distress on his brother’s face pushes Osamu to nag him:
‘Got boobs in my inbox.’
Atsumu grabs his phone and sits upright. Osamu gasps, scandalized, and looks at Suna for help but he’s just smirking at the twins' antics, peacefully chewing his mouthful. Traitor.
Atsumu waves the phone in front of his own face and it unlocks, curse facial recognition technology.
‘Oh my god!’ Atsumu barks, laughter echoing in the crowded hall, ‘I can’t believe you actually got boobs in your inbox! Why you, though, there’s obviously a much better looking option.’
‘It’s because I’m a delight,’ Osamu grumbles, reaching for his phone, but Suna takes it before he can.
Osamu almost splays on the table to get to him but Suna just swiftly dodges, leaning back on his chair with that same smirk.
‘Nice,’ he says, before looking back at Osamu like he isn’t lying on the table with his shirt dipping in Atsumu’s bento, ‘what are you gonna text back?’
Osamu straightens, wiping rice off his shirt, and sits back.
‘I don’t know, I wasn’t planning on texting back,’ he shrugs.
‘Dude,’ Atsumu says, at the same time as Suna replies with a frown, ‘You have to. That’s how you get more.’
Osamu isn’t really sure how to explain he doesn’t want more. It’s just tits, not a gold bank. But Suna is already typing a text at the speed of light.
‘Send a pic of your dick back,’ he says without looking up.
Osamu almost chokes on his water. Suna holds the phone, elbow lazily propped on the table.
‘Or I will,’ he says, eyes locked with Osamu.
Osamu doesn’t know what to say that won’t come out as a garbled mess. Suna just shrugs and takes the phone back, scrapping his chair loudly as he stands up. Osamu watches him go through the double doors in a haze.
‘Dude,’ Atsumu says again, snapping Osamu out of his reverie.
Before he can say anything, Gin slips in the free seat, shouldering his back off with a sigh.
‘Where’s Suna gone?’ He asks, opening his bento.
‘Nowhere,’ Osamu yelps, voice nearly breaking, at the same time as Atsumu says, ‘Bathroom.’
They both give a weird look at Osamu who avoids any conversation by stuffing an entire mochi ball into his mouth, nearly choking himself to death.
Gin talks about his meeting with the guidance counselor which Osamu doesn’t listen to, mind busy imagining whatever the fuck Suna is probably doing right now.
Is he in a stall, one hand on his dick and the other on the phone? Osamu’s phone . Is he looking at the picture she sent? Is he getting hard thinking about her boobs? Does he also hold his shirt in between his teeth? God, fuck, Osamu needs to stop thinking about this before he pops a boner in the middle of the cafeteria.
He takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out, and manages to not even stutter or babble anything stupid when Suna comes back and returns his phone with a knowing smirk. He just puts the phone in his back pocket and forgets about it for the rest of the day. Or at least tries to. The knowledge of what’s on it seems like it’s burning a hole through his pants.
Suna’s presence in the back of class doesn’t help. Osamu risks a look during the last period but Suna just jerks his head with a smile and a raised eyebrow. Did she reply? Osamu shakes his head and turns his attention back to whatever the class is about.
It’s only at home, in the comfort of the locked bathroom, that he dares to open the conversation. She had, in fact, replied a few minutes after Suna returned the phone but he hadn’t had the courage to open it just yet. She’d sent another picture of her boobs but this time, her hand was lowering the waistband of her skirt to show the hem of pale blue panties.
The message she’d sent was inviting, calling for a response, a picture of him, a picture of his dick, a picture of him jerking off. A picture for a picture. Everyone had told him to do it, fill up the wank bank or whatever gross shit Atsumu had called it.
He opens her first picture and unbuckles his pants. He doesn’t really see the big deal about boobs. They’re just not that big of a thing to him. Sure they look nice, but he just doesn’t see the appeal, sexually. He goes to swipe for the next picture, palming himself through his underwear.
What appears instead is a picture of pale abs with a line of dark hair trailing from the belly button to a half hard dick resting against a strong hand. Suna’s picture. His pants are unbuckled, pushed down to his thighs, and he’s leaning with his back on the bathroom wall, hips forward. The picture screams Suna’s lazy, unbothered attitude. He wonders if she can tell it’s not him.
Osamu’s gaze follows the curve of Suna’s forearm, the bump of his wrist bone, the hollow of his trapezium. How his thumb rests on the base of his cock. He’s always admired Suna’s hands. They’re strong, thin and long, bony and… hot.
A shot of pleasure to his dick makes Osamu realize he’s still palming his now bulgy boxers.
Would Suna care if he jerked himself off to a picture of him? Would he even know? Osamu doesn’t plan on telling him. He should’ve known Osamu would see it anyway. Why would he be only allowed to look at her pictures when his are right there?
He runs a hand the length of his dick, shivering with the onslaught of pleasure. And if he comes imagining what Suna’s long fingers would feel around his cock, well no one has to know.
The truth is, now, looking at it, he doesn’t even find her pictures that impressive. Well, the idea of texting such intimate pictures to what is basically a stranger is impressive. Osamu just knows he can’t do it. Not to a girl. He appreciates the thought but ends up texting her with his free hand a quick ‘Sorry, I don’t think I like girls’. He finds himself awfully brave telling this to her when he can’t even tell his brother. Then again, she’s a stranger, she doesn’t care what he does with his life. But the idea of Atsumu knowing this terrifies him.
She replies immediately, kindly apologizing for sending the nudes unprompted and only asking he deletes them. He agrees and thumbs down on the pictures, deleting them without a second thought. But his hand hovers over Suna’s picture. It is a pretty nice picture, he allows himself this one thought, and deletes it.
He finds himself still thinking about Suna’s picture and Suna’s hand and Suna’s smirk late in the night. He buries his head in his pillow and wishes the stupid thoughts are gone by the next day.
They aren’t.
The next day he shows up to morning practice looking to avoid Suna but seems to find him everywhere. And everytime he glances at Suna, Suna is always looking at him. They don’t mention the nudes at any moment. Osamu is scattered throughout practice, which Atsumu doesn’t fail to rub in his face in the way that always makes Osamu want to punch his stupid lights out.
He’s stretching in a corner, angrily muttering to himself about what he’ll do to Atsumu in revenge, when there’s a heavy press against his back.
‘Hey,’ Suna says.
‘Hey,’ Osamu replies, leaning forward to stretch his thighs.
Suna’s knee against his back follows him, bringing a slow burn to his back muscles. He doesn’t move away. Suna removes his knee when Osamu leans the other way but quickly replaces it with his hand, broad against Osamu’s shoulder blades. He pushes slightly, forcing Osamu to lean lower than he usually would. Any burning in his muscles is upstaged by the absolute blushing that takes over his face. He’s grateful Suna can’t see it.
‘Do you have that picture of Gin doing the handstand at Aran’s birthday party?’ Suna asks in a low voice, almost like a confession, ‘Can you send it to me?’
Osamu nods, straightening back up. Suna’s hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck, the pad of his thumb brushing at the baby hair on Osamu’s nape.
‘Thanks,’ he says and gives a slight squeeze before removing his hand.
If Osamu needs to take five seconds to calm his dick before getting up, no one has to know.
He opens up his camera roll in the locker room and nearly slams his head into his open locker turning to see if anyone saw the screen. Because, at the bottom of the camera roll, there is not one, but about ten pictures taken from Suna’s bathroom run. The tie he stuck in his mouth to unlock his phone almost falls from his jaw hanging so wide open. He slaps it against his shoulder and marches towards the door like the Terminator, if the Terminator’s mission was to look at his camera roll the fastest way possible.
‘Bathroom,’ he pips over his shoulder, voice high-pitched, before setting off.
He doesn’t even bother to lock the stall door, letting it slam against the frame. He unlocks his phone with shaking hands. First picture. The one he sent, the trail of hairs from the abs to the cock resting in his hand. Osamu feverishly swipes to the next one.
Suna’s hand is gripping his cock more firmly. He swipes. Suna’s running his thumb against the slit. He doesn’t even have to look at Suna’s face to know Suna’s signature smirk must have been on his lips. Swipe. Suna’s dick is almost fully hard, shiny with precome. The hand moving down the length is blurry. Swipe.
He almost drops the phone. The angle’s different, instead of looking down on Suna’s body, the phone is placed on his knees, showing the underside of his cock, the long fingers splayed against the base and Suna’s balls. Suna’s abs are tense, his V line jutting forward. His uniform shirt is stuck in between his teeth.
Osamu’s mouth goes dry. God, fuck, he wants to put his lips on Suna’s body. He swipes again. There’s a video. It’s only a few seconds. Osamu presses play in an instant.
Suna’s hand is moving against his dick, slow then faster then slower again. He raises the camera slowly so that it captures his face too. His eyes are staring straight into the camera with careless abandon. His eyes flutter shut as he leans his head back. The video cuts on an aborted moan.
Osamu stares at the still photo of Suna’s face tipped back in blissful pleasure. Fuck, he thinks, how much he wants this.
He’s impossibly hard in his slacks. He swipes. The downwards angle is back, showing Suna’s abs, hand and cock splattered with white. The realisation is like a bucket of ice water over Osamu’s head. Suna came. Suna came and took pictures of it on Osamu’s phone and sat behind him in class like nothing happened.
Osamu swipes again, expecting it to be the last one. But there’s another one. A picture of Suna’s face, eyes into the camera, the same lazy smile. He’s got two fingers in his mouth, tongue poking out slightly to lick at his come-covered hand. This is definitely the hottest thing Osamu has ever seen in his life.
The door of the stall bangs open against the wall and Osamu jumps like he’s been caught red-handed. Suna leans against the frame, elbow propped above his head, making him tower above Osamu despite their similar height. He rarely stands straight, always slouching, so Osamu seems to forget how tall he actually is. Right now, he can’t forget. Suna’s lips tug into his signature smirk.
‘Like what you see?’
Osamu opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He can’t look Suna in the eyes. He’s also terribly aware of how hard he is.
‘I didn’t text her,’ he stammers, ‘I mean, I broke it off.’
‘Okay,’ Suna says, ‘they weren’t for her anyway.’
Osamu’s eyes widen and finally land on Suna. Suddenly, it all adds up. Every time he’s been looking at Suna and Suna’s been looking back.
‘So’, Suna says, taking a step towards him, ‘you didn’t answer. Did you like them?’
Osamu swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and nods.
‘Good’, Suna murmurs, barely inches away from his face now. He’s playfully thumbing at the belt loop of Osamu’s pants. Osamu can feel Suna’s breath against his cheek. It sends shivers all the way down his arms.
‘I like you an awful lot, Miya Osamu,’ Suna says, lips brushing against Osamu’s cheekbone.
Osamu leans forward until his nose is brushing against the shell of Suna’s hear.
‘The feeling is mutual.’
Suna hooks a finger into the belt loop of Osamu’s slacks, bringing him closer to him until his body is flushed against Suna’s, wrenching a little gasp from Osamu at the friction on his erection.
‘Better take care of this,’ Suna says with a smirk.
Osamu smashes his lips against his, feeling the smile turn genuinely delighted before answering the kiss.
And if he’s panting into Suna’s mouth while his long, bony fingers wrap around Osamu’s cock and stroke him senseless, no one has to know.