kit | 🔕 | writing offline!

kit | 🔕 | writing offline!



#sakuatsu | nsfw | roleplay, gentle dom, praise kink, cock milking. Atsumu looks ridiculous and cleaning with your balls hanging out is counter-intuitive. As is making him scrub the floor on his hands and knees with his bare-ass in the air. “Are you fucking with me?” he snaps.

”Nope,” Kiyoomi isn’t. Ok, maybe a little. It is a little amusing to watch Atsumu get warmer under Kiyoomi’s unwavering stare, giving him nothing to work with. He scrubs, and Kiyoomi watches, fully clothed, one leg resting over the other, his demeanor apathetic.

It didn’t start as a serious scene; they rarely do scenes seriously. Too early in the relationship to be that real and open. It started as a joke. In public. At Kiyoomi’s expense. Miya Atsumu is a fool. So he got what he wanted, but Kiyoomi has to admit it’s not a half-bad deal.

“Can we role-play at least?” Atsumu whines, smacking the wet cloth against the floor. “This feels like I’m doing chores.” Kiyoomi has to work to not show weakness; the smug smirk is threatening to pop out. He stays cold, unbothered. “Alright. What do you want to role-play?”

Atsumu sits back to think. It squishes his ass against the floor in a lewd way Kiyoomi is embarrassed to immediately take note of and enjoy. He’s an ass guy, apparently, an ass on shiny-clean floors guy. “You have to scrub that part again,” he says, having to clear his voice.

It takes a second for Atsumu to remember he’s naked, look down between his legs, catch sight of his half-chub cock, and blush profusely from his chest to his ears. “Oh, fuck off,” he scoffs. Kiyoomi holds himself from leaning forward to see if his suspicions are right.

Atsumu likes a little challenge in his foreplay. “I know.” Kiyoomi stands, weaving his way through puddles and cleaning supplies to tower over Atsumu’s kneeled, naked form. “Let’s roleplay I’ve hired you, and I am very disappointed in your work.” Atsumu swallows, cowering.

The sight of him is fascinating. Strong, flexing muscles, every part of Atsumu bristles like a predator and yet he tries to make himself look small, helpless, needy. “Okay, what -” He looks up, licking his lips nervously. “What’s my punishment? For being so bad at this?”

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi considers. He crouches down beside Atsumu, placing his hand on the back of Atsumu’s sweaty neck. “Why would you think punishment?” A shiver runs through Atsumu’s body. Kiyoomi traces its path with his fingers, moving them over the knobs of Atsumu’s curved spine.

Goosebumps follow his touch. Atsumu blushes so easily. When he speaks, his voice is low, hesitant. His eyes drop submissively to the soaked washcloth he’s squeezing in his fists, knuckles raw and red from the wetness, having had no chance to dry them. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

Sometimes, Kiyoomi can’t understand why someone so addicted to praise, who thrives knowing he did well, expects punishment at the slightest mistake, seeking it if it doesn’t come. Other times, seeing Atsumu beat himself up if he’s anything but perfect, he understands too well.

His grip returns to the cuff of Atsumu’s neck, this time squeezing. “I think you just need a little help focusing.” The sound Atsumu lets out is between a relieved exhale and a stifled moan, “Omi -” “Isn’t that a bit familiar for someone you’re working for?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu looks at him, lost. “You may call me ‘sir’,” Kiyoomi helps him out, noticing the very obvious effect the order has on Atsumu, and instead of calling it out in his usual taunts, leading Atsumu’s eyes down by moving his own gaze to the area between Atsumu’s knees.

“You missed a spot,” he comments, eyeing the clear dribble of precome that drips from Atsumu’s flushed cock to the floor. Atsumu’s inhale is cute and sharp, and he hurries to cover up his weakness with the washcloth, the back of his neck growing hot with embarrassment.

“I’m - sorry,” he trips over his tongue. Normally, it takes more than a few barbs and some heavy petting to get him this attentive. The few times they’ve tried power play, Atsumu fights him for control. But not now. Kiyoomi isn’t about to waste the chance to figure out why.

“Have that cleaned by the time I’m back,” he orders, slipping into the adjacent room and stalling long enough to hear Atsumu getting antsy. He drags the drawer open loudly, uncaps the bottle of lube with a smack that echoes through the silent apartment, smears ample on his hand.

Returning, he walks in to quite the endearing sight: Atsumu, one hand wrapped around the tip his cock, squeezing tighter as he slides it up. Mouth parted in soft pleasure even as his brows look furrowed and frustrated to see more slick pool out, clinging to his glistening slit.

“On all fours, please.” Kiyoomi resumes his position by his side. It doesn’t take long for Atsumu to obey or for Kiyoomi to slide his hand near his entrance, spreading the lube over his rim. Atsumu fights excitement. Beneath him, his thick, heavy cock hangs between his legs,

another drop of pre finally breaking from the long, sticky string to land on the floor. “Clean it up.” “Yes, sir,” Atsumu says, moving the hand that holds the washcloth to streak the floor until it slides over the spot, leaving behind bubbles. “Good boy,” Kiyoomi rewards him.

Praise has Atsumu rolling his ass against his hand. Kiyoomi feels his rim tighten, twitching against his finger pads. When he presses the very tip of his middle finger in, Atsumu sucks in an audible breath and takes what he needs greedily, pushing back to have it slip deeper.

Again, he freezes, waiting to be told off, and, again, Kiyoomi subverts his expectations, dragging his finger out and pushing it in all the way to the knuckle, shushing him when Atsumu tries working his hips in time to his slow penetration and releases a needy gasp, failing.

“You focus on your job, and I’ll focus on mine,” Kiyoomi redirects his frustration, swiping his other hand through Atsumu’s hair. Atsumu pauses his jerky movements. His throat moves with his swallow. He nods, keeping his eyes on his hand as it slides and scrubs the tiles.

“Good,” Kiyoomi reinforces. Atsumu pushes on a stubborn scratch that’s likely not going to fade while Kiyoomi works his finger in and out until he feels confident that Atsumu’s ready for a second. He pushes his pointer in, and Atsumu groans, head falling between his shoulders.

Kiyoomi allows him the deep breaths it takes for Atsumu to pick his head up and continue where he left off, dipping the washcloth in the basin and squeezing the water out, slapping it back against the floor right on time to swipe whatever’s leaked out of him at Kiyoomi’s touch.

Anytime his cock drips, Kiyoomi guides his attention to it and asks him to clean up after himself, watching the soothing repetitiveness help Atsumu relax into his assigned role, the tension leaving his body entirely. His amber eyes clouded and faraway, pupils dilated, unfocused.

Kiyoomi loosens him up and watches him take more fingers without as much as a twitch. He brushes on Atsumu’s prostate with barely a protest, the only clue that the stimulation is affecting him, the near-constant droplets hanging off Atsumu’s straining cock, getting milkier.

As the pressure increases so does the slight trembles in his tensing thighs. Atsumu bites down on a grunt, hiding his face into his arm when the first real spurt of fluid shoots out of him, landing on the floor wetly. “It’s okay, clean it up,” Kiyoomi encourages calmly.

Atsumu’s flushed red and panting heavily when he manages to get his face out. His hand shakes lifting the washcloth and guiding it to the mess between his legs. He curses under his breath seeing the amount, and the sudden bobbing of his cock gives away how much it turns him on.

Kiyoomi lets him watch the second round, picking up the alternating feathery circles and rough thrusts on his prostate. It takes shorter this time, Atsumu’s squirming almost immediately, snapping his hips forward to fuck the air and the spurt is followed by a breathy, “oh, shit.”

He doesn’t need to be told to wipe. As soon as the shudders running down his body, as soon as his eyes are no longer squeezed shut, he’s hurrying to have the floor sparkling. “Good boy,” Kiyoomi lets the smile reflect in his tone. “Think you can give me one more, little one?”

He’d been saving that for a deserving moment. Atsumu freezes, hearing it. The loopy smile on his face is poorly-hidden. If Atsumu thinks he’s too loud or too big or too masculine to be spoiled, then, with two simple words, Kiyoomi will show him he’s worth being taken care of.

“Yeah,” Atsumu sounds choked up. He clears his throat. “Yes, sir.” “Fast learner,” Kiyoomi chuckles. Atsumu positively preens at the compliment. He’s absolutely still, fantastically focused on the cleaning as Kiyoomi pushes his fingers deeper, getting him close before —

— bringing out the big guns, having his other hand join in, wrapping loosely around Atsumu’s untouched, leaking cock, stroking him as he fingers his ass at the same time. Atsumu shakes with the doubled stimulation, having a hard time staying on all fours. “Too much, oh fuck!”

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi keeps repeating steadily above Atsumu’s panicked gasping. “It’s okay. Let yourself have it. Whatever happens, you can always clean it up.” Atsumu whines in complaint, but his hips jerk forward in Kiyoomi’s grip, accepting the pleasure, folding into it.

Letting it wash over him as his inhibitions lower completely, and he’s moaning, bucking into Kiyoomi’s fist without a care in the world about how he looks or sounds, what people might think, and because of that, because he’s trusting Kiyoomi fully, he looks and sounds beautiful.

He deserves to know how much, but Kiyoomi’s himself too overwhelmed watching his unrepressed reactions - loud, clumsy, desperate, hips stuttering, fists clutching, spine arching - that he can’t form the sentences to convey how his heart pounds against his chest with affection.

So he says the first thing that his brain can put together, possibly the least thoughtful compliment he has ever given anyone, but the most honest one, too. “You’re such a pretty boy, Miya, you gorgeous moron.”

Atsumu’s gonna tease him for that later, but currently, he’s too busy curling his toes, grinding his ass on Kiyoomi’s fingers and shooting heavy loads of cum all over his belly up to his chin. He comes apart like a firework, shouting Kiyoomi’s name over and over again.

The silence that follows feels suffocated in the echoes of what just happened and the labored breathing from both of them. “Oh, no, fuck,” Atsumu sighs, looking like he’s going to let himself slump on the floor to hide his face and reaction, but Kiyoomi’s quicker.

He scoops him up in his arms and drags him across the floor to rest against his chest, hugging him too tight for protest. “Whatever smart-ass, self-sabotaging thing you’re gonna say to push me away because you’re sacred of what just happened, save it for ten minutes from now.”

“I’m -” Atsumu tries, interrupted by the need to breathe, exhaling and continuing, “I’m, I’m, I’m gonna say some things about this,” he pants, “some really funny things, as soon as I -” he wracks with aftershocks, jittering. “Take your time.” Kiyoomi smiles against his hair.

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