Lazy Sundays should start with a drawn out make-out session to wake up. Drawn out make-out sessions should be followed by an idle fuck in the morning. Idle fucks should lead to a lazy day.
A beautiful circle and no way to press repeat.
At least not when you’re a player for the V.League Division 1 and you have to spend six days a week on the court or around it.
That’s the sole and unfortunate reason why Atsumu groans this morning when Kiyoomi starts to stir in his arms to get away from the cozy nest they made out of his king sized bed.
They have to, though. Even in a blissful world where they could afford spending their Sunday in bed, they’d still need to shower after that. Namely the sticky, damp and slick mess covering their thighs, butts and stomachs.
Atsumu can’t know peace, he thinks, until he hears the soft click of Kiyoomi’s fancy coffee maker from afar and grins into the pillow that smells like his lover.
Alright… Maybe there’s no lazy Sunday to spend in bed, but that doesn’t sound like hell either.
Atsumu takes the bed sheets off to wash them later then showers alone after Kiyoomi, because he knows Kiyoomi enjoys his intimacy in the morning, which Atsumu doesn’t mind. He was hilt deep inside Kiyoomi less than twenty minutes ago — intimate enough as it is.
They have a few things planned for this afternoon so the late morning is dedicated to cleaning the flat, since Atsumu is crashing there at least four nights a week to avoid getting stuck in his crammed dorms bedroom — not intimate enough as it is.
He loves it here. Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to mind, as long as Atsumu shares his fair trade of chores, so he isn’t in a rush to find his own place.
“There’s coffee in the pot,” Kiyoomi tells him, as Atsumu treads through the main room of the apartment, toward the kitchen counter.
His lover is bent over the opened dishwasher, picking up two clean mugs. Atsumu can’t resist and slaps the tempting butt perked right there under his nose.
Kiyoomi startles before turning his head away from the dishwasher racks to slowly stare at him with barely contained disdain. Makes Atsumu smirk.
“There’s yer ass parked in the way, Omi-kun,” he explains with a shrug.
“Crass,” Kiyoomi comments, finally pushing himself up to place the cups on the counter.
Atsumu leans in to peck him on the jaw, nuzzling his neck as he cooes: “What did we say about talking dirty outside of the bedroom? Don’t play foul, Omi.”
“You’re vacuuming,” Kiyoomi answers sternly, leaning away from Atsumu to reach for the coffee pot.
“Please stop it, I’m so hard,” Atsumu keeps playing with emphasis, trying to chase after him for a kiss.
“Keep it up and you’re also on fridge cleaning duty.”
This time Atsumu groans in defeat, retreating to grab the mug Kiyoomi left for him and waiting for his fill with a pout.
“No one freakin’ cleans their fridge weekly Omi, I told ya.”
“And I told ya, I do.”
Atsumu doesn’t argue past that, he never made a habit of making fun of his lover’s needs to keep his surroundings clean and neat. They’re comfortable enough for him to make a joke here and there, but that’s it.
Coffee fills his cup and Atsumu finds himself daydreaming as he sips the hot beverage, black and dry, while Kiyoomi enjoys the unhealthy amount of sugar that’s in his own, sitting at the table, scrolling through his instagram feed.
“Did that pup do some cute shit again?” Atsumu asks, when he catches Kiyoomi smiling softly at his phone.
Calling it that pup is safe territory, since Kiyoomi follows at least two dozen different accounts dedicated to popular dogs on instagram alone.
“In fact, he did. Want to see Haru flopping down a slide?” he offers without looking away from the screen, his lips now curled in a crooked grin.
“How about ya slide it in my DMs instead, Omi-kun. Gotta start vacuuming,” Atsumu excuses himself.
He downs his cup and moves to the closet as he hears Kiyoomi’s faint “Figured.”
His boyfriend never held against him the fact that Atsumu doesn’t really care for cute dog videos. In turn, he still requests that Kiyoomi send them his way so he can scout the accounts himself and find further material to make that mysterious and dark inflexible boyfriend of his melt into a puddle of goo.
He gets the vacuum out, along with Kiyoomi’s cleaning products, then returns to the kitchen. His lover is still engrossed in whatever video he’s watching, so Atsumu moves to the fridge.
He might like his coffee black but he indulges in one thing: heavily artificial high-carb soda. The fizzier, the better. And he just happens to have snuck a bottle of cherry flavored Dr. Pepper in Kiyoomi’s fridge on Thursday night when he wasn’t paying attention.
Atsumu got an earful for it in the morning. But with Kiyoomi’s strong no-waste policy, everything turned to his advantage in the end and he gets to savor a large glass of perfectly unhealthy soft drink while doing his chores this Sunday.
He adds a straw too — a washable glass straw — and moves back to the vacuum cleaner under Kiyoomi’s judgemental stare.
Atsumu sips a long gulp of the aggressive red drink without breaking eye-contact, then presses the power button with the ball of his foot, the room immediately filled with a low humming tone. Even that doesn’t sound like hell, because trust Kiyoomi to purchase fancy high end appliances only. The dull noise emanating from the task doesn’t seem to disturb Kiyoomi in the least, Atsumu gets on with it. He plugs an earpiece in his left ear, shuffles through his playlist and once he’s found the perfect Taylor Swift song for this, he carries on.
First the genkan, then the corridor, bath and bedroom. Atsumu goes on with the kitchen, where he gets a refill of Dr. Pepper, before ending up around the living room area.
Atsumu is careful around the fancy pristine carpet. He’s been scolded enough to know Kiyoomi would throw him out if anything happened to the precious white plush rug. Once he’s done, Atsumu moves toward the couch and grins to himself. It’s time to flex a little, if only for his own pride.
He carefully steps over the carpet after unnecessarily checking the underside of his white socks. Once proven clean, he drags the vacuum along.
His boyfriend still hasn’t moved from the table, and it’s likely he’s not paying any attention to Atsumu because he does not move nor give the slightest sign he acknowledged his lover’s latest buffoonery to date.
There are plenty of reasons for their lot to be called the Monster Generation. Usually it has to do with their incredible physical skills. Skills the players demonstrate on the court in favor of a good strategic play. Atsumu knows how to use these competences daily. Having thighs of steel isn’t just fantastic to perform incredible sets. They come in handy in the most domestic settings, such as casually balancing his boyfriend’s couch with his foot while he vacuums under it. Saves him a lot of trouble and allows Atsumu to keep on sipping his chemical soda.
However, Atsumu can be a genius setter, a monster or basically whatever, there’s no saving himself from the noisy clatter that makes him jump out of skin and let go of the couch.
There’s no saving the carpet either and he has little to no time to see it all unfold before his very eyes. The second clattering noise is inevitably the one that signs his death warrant and the red liquid that stains the pristine rug a metaphor for the blood that’s about to be spilled.
Before his phone flies out of his pocket, snatching his earpiece off in the process, he can hear Taylor sing “Look what you made me do”, irony peaking.
“Omi! Wait!” Atsumu squeals preemptively.
But there’s no saving Atsumu this time…
Red is the bandana Haru wears around his cute fluffy neck while he runs toward the camera, canines and tongue out. Red is the little heart that pops on screen when Kiyoomi likes the video that just gave him his daily dose of serotonin. Red is the atrocious drink his boyfriend is currently drinking while hoovering Kiyoomi’s immaculate carpet.
Kiyoomi suffers intense whiplash when he snatches his eyes away from his phone to double check what he possibly didn’t just witness.
Gravity works against him there as Kiyoomi has to face the obvious. Miya soon-to-be-dead Atsumu is sipping on some weird red liquid over his fancy expensive rug which triggers both Kiyoomi’s jaw drop and… cup of coffee drop.
Kiyoomi will remember the irony of the situation all his life, and hold accountable his stupid boyfriend for it just as long, if not longer than that. The crash of the mug exploding on the floor merges with the loud bang produced by Kiyoomi’s knees when he jumps to his feet in surprise, drenched in searing coffee after his second refill.
The ruckus is immediately followed by a much bigger bang — one that occurs when Atsumu lets go of his relatively balanced hold on the couch — which covers in turn the dull thud made by Atsumu’s glass of soda when it hits the carpet.
Chaos theory calls that the butterfly effect; Kiyoomi calls it a major fuck up. And his boyfriend yelping his name like a kicked puppy surely isn’t going to prevent him from losing his entire shit over the unfortunate series of events.
Unfortunately for him, Kiyoomi has other pressing matters to attend to first, like the fact that his crotch is on fire. Yes, because of Atsumu; no, not for the right reasons. Kiyoomi hurtles forward a second, as if to escape the burning sensation, fighting against his meltdown by trying to focus on his melting groin instead.
He kicks his pants down, squirming out of them like an overgrown worm in the middle of his living room. Graceful, flexible Kiyoomi wriggling out of his sweatpants. Atsumu is so dead.
Atsumu can probably see that because he just stays frozen in place, his head sinking in his shoulders as if he could suddenly disappear out of sight just by sheer willpower. It isn’t working.
“You should be running,” Kiyoomi growls the moment he steps out of his sweatpants.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Atsumu yelps again, finally taking a step back, further away from the spreading stain.
“It wasn’t your fault?” Kiyoomi asks in utter disbelief. “You brought that shit right there on the carpet and it wasn’t your fault?!”
“Why did ya drop your stuff, Omi!” Atsumu finally springs into motion when Kiyoomi nears the edge of the ruined rug.
He bounces out of reach, circling the living room area to get to the closet.
“Are you implying it’s my fault?” Kiyoomi almost shouts, outraged. “Get your fucking ass back here, Miya!”
“I’m gonna clean it! I’m gonna clean, I sw—”
“It’s not salvageable!”
Atsumu stops in his tracks before he can even start rummaging through Kiyoomi’s cleaning supplies. He looks over his shoulder for a second, studying his boyfriend — whose menacing aura isn’t that effective since Atsumu trails back toward him. Sheepishly, but surely, until he’s planted right in front of Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi really needs to work on his threatening attitude if his boyfriend feels like it’s a safe space to lurk in, right now.
“No, it is! I’m sure it is. Okay, but if it’s not...” Atsumu starts before — how dare — wrapping his arms around Kiyoomi who really needs to verbalize his need to throttle him since it’s apparently so unclear.
When did he go so soft? There’s no way he’s not using the mop of dyed hair on top of his boyfriend to scrub the soda off right now. There’s no way he’s letting Atsumu hug him without frantically pushing him back.
Why is Kiyoomi looking like a reluctant cat pawing at his face to avoid some smooches instead of punching him in the throat?
“Ya said ya wanted to go furniture shopping! I’ll buy a new carpet. Any carpet! The fanciest carpet Omi... No one’s gonna pout over a rug, ‘kay? Yer kinda adorable, when ya—”
Famous last words.
If Kiyoomi went soft — in a fleeting moment of weakness — then Atsumu definitely lowered his guard way too much. And, yes, maybe they’re enough in love for Kiyoomi to do crazy things like making little blissful noises when Atsumu strokes his hair when they curl up on the couch at night, but he won’t be called adorable and coo when his boyfriend just defiled and destroyed his belongings.
No matter how in love and how soft they get on this couch, right now Kiyoomi manhandles Atsumu and throws him there unceremoniously. He has no idea what’s the plan, but straddling his boyfriend’s thighs and grabbing him by the collar to shake him seems like a good start.
“Say that to my face again,” he snarls.
“Which part,” Atsumu gulps down audibly, a little stunned from the sudden shift but… apparently shamelessly popping a boner.
Tragically not afraid or anything of the sort. Bewildered, yes. But seeing what’s timidly trying to poke Kiyoomi’s ass, there’s no terror there.
“You’re a fucking hazard to society, Miya. Don’t you dare get hard when I’m pissed—”
“Or what, Omi!” Atsumu cuts him, getting more comfortable on the couch as if there wasn’t a giant pile of angry muscles radiating wrath above him. “Ya jump me, pants down, jolt me around and expect me to not bat an eye when ya give me these angry eyes? Where’s that tactical brain of yours?”
The nerves. The audacity. Unparalleled.
Atsumu needs to be taught a lesson and Kiyoomi finds that barking back would just play against him at this point. Atsumu will find his way out with a smart come-back, Kiyoomi will answer more heatedly and it will escalate until they get physical.
Better skip the painful process and not waste his saliva. Not like this, at least.
Kiyoomi crushes their lips together, silencing Atsumu on the spot. Or close.
Astumu moans quietly against his lips before opening them to form the beginning of a word that Kiyoomi bites off immediately. He dips his tongue past his boyfriend’s lips to prevent any further attempt at teasing him or saying he’s sorry
Atsumu’s hands move to Kiyoomi’s hips, dragging him further into his lap, making it pretty obvious that his insults riled him up more than anything. Kiyoomi indulges him for a few seconds, sliding up Atsumu’s thighs, only because it allows him to sneak a hand between the cushions of the couch, where his fingers soon reach a familiar plastic item.
Atsumu stuck that bottle of lube there on Friday night under Kiyoomi’s judgemental stare, saying it might come in handy. That’s probably why he grins smugly when Kiyoomi settles back in his lap and uncaps the bottle with a snap of the thumb and a telltale click.
“Fighting fire with fire, trouble?” Atsumu asks, dragging a hand down his own chest until it settles over the hem of his pants, pulling them down just slightly enough for Kiyoomi to get a peek at his happy trail.
Kiyoomi musters his most unimpressed glare, ignoring the slight jump his stomach does at the sight just like he ignored the nickname.
“That’s a perfectly good carpet you ruined there,” he says, pushing himself on his knees so he’s towering the other man.
That way, there’s no false pretense, Atsumu can see he’s affected too, but Kiyoomi will tell him it’s only because he gets off on bossing him around, as he’s about to demonstrate.
“So you wanna ruin it furthermore? I’m not even sure ya need this that much,” Atsumu says, following him with eyes sparkling with mischief, the hand that isn’t on his pants sneaking between Kiyoomi’s parted thighs.
Kiyoomi slaps it away immediately.
“The monstrosity you drank was clearly spiked if you think I’m going to let you fuck me again today,” he says, moving out of the couch swiftly. “Get down there,” he adds, pointing at the bit of carpet just next to them that isn’t tainted red.
“Fuck,” Atsumu breathes out. “Is this hate sex? Punishment sex? Oh my god, gotta tell Suna I’m living his weird ass 50 Shades of shit fantasy.”
“Shut up,” Kiyoomi blurts out, throwing his head back in despair.
“Sorry, killed your boner?” Atsumu asks, rushing to get on his knees over the carpet, expression as childish as if he had punctuated the whole sentence with an oopsies.
“Just—For heaven’s sake, shut up!” Kiyoomi growls deep from his chest.
Worst part is that his boner is more alive than ever. This man is the entire reason Kiyoomi questions his life choices every single minute of his life; just like he’s the answer to all of his struggles.
Atsumu complies without another commentary — precisely because he knows when to stop — and even removes his shirt before dropping on his knees and elbows.
Kiyoomi has to admit he didn’t expect him to immediately get there, ass perched up, looking back over his shoulder with hungry eyes… not that Kiyoomi was going to back down, but he still gets a little stunned.
The sight helps against the short-circuit efficiently, especially when Atsumu turns away again, rolling his shoulders. The muscles of his back flex, catching the sunlight just right, fading red marks left by Kiyoomi’s nails flashing.
Kiyoomi is on his knees in seconds, tearing at his boyfriend’s pants until they pool around his knees, knowing Atsumu won’t take the risk to comment on his eagerness because they both know Kiyoomi’s worked up to just the right amount of mad and horny.
Maybe seeing the massive stain from up close takes it up a notch and Atsumu gets slammed on the ground, face pressed into the plushy dry spot next to the disaster, and maybe the throaty sound that gets out of his mouth when it happens spurs Kiyoomi on, but it’s still a reasonable amount of mad and horny.
Reasonable enough for Kiyoomi not to rush and slowly drag the tip of his finger over Atsumu’s hole to see him squirm at the sudden cold press. Not reasonable enough to warm up the lube.
And it’s still 50 shades of shit punishment sex, or whatever Atsumu had the guts to call it.
“Can’t believe we’re gonna have sex on your fancy white carpet! Who are ya and what did ya do to my boyf—shit!” Atsumu suddenly hisses, trying to escape the freezing touch.
Kiyoomi can’t facepalm now, but that’s tempting.
Instead he uses his clean hand to grab his lover’s jaw, draping himself over his back as his finger finally slips past the first ring of muscles.
Atsumu’s jaw clenches in his grasp, his teeth snapping when he shuts his mouth. His cheek rubs on the carpet as he cranes his neck to look back at Kiyoomi, half daring, half dreamy.
A sharp intake of breath later, Kiyoomi drops any pretense, rocking his hips forward to seek some friction. His cock rubbing against the back of Atsumu’s thigh through the slightly coffee-damp material of his boxers makes him recoil immediately and he releases his boyfriend’s jaw in favor of removing the offensive garment.
Kiyoomi exhales long and slow at the brush of his dick along Atsumu’s inner thigh, and he feels it throb when the feather touch makes his entire body shiver under him.
He needs to get a grip. Mad, and horny. If he succumbs to the second one, he’s never going to be able to drag this on and then, if Kiyoomi remembers why he was mad in the first place, it will feel like a defeat—
“Kiyoomi, please, don’t tease.”
Atsumu doesn’t exactly whine like a brat. It’s not a heartfelt plea either, but it still sends Kiyoomi’s mind reeling.
His fingers find Atsumu’s jaw again, this time prying his lips open. His lover gets the hint, greedily swallowing his index and middle fingers, tongue swirling around the digits sinfully. Kiyoomi holds back a grunt and gets to work, finger fucking Atsumu from both ends.
It takes only a couple of minutes for Atsumu to try and spread his legs more — still trapped in the pants bunched around his knees — but Kiyoomi understands the cue and pulls his finger back to insert a second one.
His boyfriend clenches around him at the intrusion so Kiyoomi focuses on his mouth instead, leaving him the time to adjust and a reason to get distracted by pressing his fingers over his tongue, invading his mouth even more until he can see Atsumu’s eyes roll back.
He’s painfully hard by now, but Atsumu is barely relaxing around his fingers so Kiyoomi starts scissoring them instead of thinking about the way his lover would feel so impossibly tight around his cock.
He needs to get a grip.
That shouldn’t involve rutting shamelessly against his boyfriend’s thigh but he can’t help it, it’s starting to be difficult to concentrate. Kiyoomi removes his fingers from Atsumu’s mouth. He leans forward, wrist bending so he can keep on thrusting inside him at a faster and deeper pace while he drags his tongue behind Atsumu’s ear, licking along the shell tantalizingly slowly.
“I said don’t tease, Omi,” his boyfriend whines this time, cracking his eyes open, mouth twisting into a delicious pout.
Kiyoomi wants to devour it but he did have something in mind when he told Atsumu to get down there and that wasn’t indulging in his lover’s whims.
“Oh, you did say that,” Kiyoomi slurs, pulling back just enough for the tips of his fingers to graze over Atsumu’s prostate, finally.
“Ffffuck,” Atsumu hisses, squirming over the carpet, cheek digging in the plush material.
“And what did I say the day I let you share my toothbrush holder?”
“Don’t get all romantic on me, Omi,” Atsumu teases despite the obvious blush on his cheeks and the adorable way his nose scrunches up from the intense stimulation and attention he’s receiving.
“And don’t get cocky,” Kiyoomi warns, tugging on his hair a little roughly, just enough for Atsumu to wince. “What did I say that day, Atsumu.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Jesus Omi, stop that, I’m gonna come.”
“You won’t. Answer me,” Kiyoomi growls into his ear.
“Ya said so many things goddamn—Fuck!”
Kiyoomi would chuckle at the reaction if he wasn’t too busy biting his lips from how hot Atsumu writhing from Kiyoomi abusing his prostate is.
“There were a ton of stupid rules!” Atsumu hisses, rocking his hips back into the touch to try and get Kiyoomi’s fingers deeper, clearly away from that weak spot. “But ya were against Dr. Pepper to begin with and now look at ya lettin’ me have my w—”
This time Atsumu doesn’t even curse, the air seems to be punched out of his lungs altogether when Kiyoomi presses a third finger in.
He jolts forward over the carpet, chest rubbing against the rug, moaning low in his throat, as his eyes flutter shut again.
Kiyoomi’s hand threads in his dyed hair, reveling in the soft touch, just to grab a fistful of it and tug again.
Atsumu’s throat is bared and Kiyoomi wishes he could sink his teeth into his pulse point. He thrusts his fingers deeper instead, mesmerized by the way his lover’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows loudly.
It makes him want to ruin Atsumu even more. And that has nothing to do with the fact they’ve slid across the carpet and are now just centimeters away from the offensive stain.
Kiyoomi drags his fingers back, rubs them over Atsumu’s prostate and shivers when it tears another wanton moan of his mouth.
“You’re not serious, Kiyoomi, please,” Atsumu starts moaning again not even a minute later.
Kiyoomi lets go of his hair, and Atumus is pressed against the carpet again, mouth open… If he starts drooling, Kiyoomi will lose it for good, and not out of anger for his soiled rug.
“Serious about what?” he asks, breathless but smug still.
“I can’t come like this,” Atsumu sounds just a little desperate, and clearly torn between that and submitting to the pressure building between his legs.
He’s panting, fists clenched close to his face… Kiyoomi can’t tear his eyes away from the breathtaking sight.
He’s fine with not actually fucking him if he can keep Atsumu on the edge like this a little longer and take him apart on his fingers.
“And I didn’t wanna buy a new carpet, but here we are,” Kiyoomi breathes out, heart throbbing in his chest.
Again, famous last words, but entranced as he is, the man doesn’t see what is coming for him.
Atsumu has more than conflicted feelings regarding that statement of not wanting to come like this. He’s seconds away from tipping over the edge, granted Kiyoomi stops messing around and torturing him, and he would welcome that crashing relief with opened arms, nonetheless.
His pride is, by now, burning far more than the stupid carpet his face is pressed against.
It is Kiyoomi’s fault, no matter how you look at it. He’s the one who dropped his coffee and startled Atsumu when he was doing nothing but competing for Best Boyfriend of the Month being all domestic, while sir Sakusa Kiyoomi was looking up corny dog videos. Yet, here he is, losing his senses and brains while his lover uses these insane bendy wrists to get him right where he wants to: and that’s nowhere near his orgasm.
Not only that, but right when Atsumu feels like Kiyoomi is getting sloppy, abusing his prostate furiously, just when he thinks he might give him just what he needs, his boyfriend has the nerves to taunt him and slow the pace again.
Well, there’s a reason — or plenty — they get along so well.
They don’t know when to quit. Kiyoomi sees everything through no matter what and Atsumu will go to the most extreme lengths to achieve his goals. That includes sacrificing a much needed and long awaited orgasm at the greater risk of giving himself the most severe case of blue balls possible. He’ll still be the last one to laugh.
Atsumu ducks away from Kiyoomi’s touch, jolting at the sensation when the tip of his leaking cock brushes the soft fabric underneath him, then whimpers when the three fingers slotted deep inside his ass roughly slip out. His left cheek feels sore from rubbing over and over on the carpet.
That's on him, though, so he doesn't dwell on that.
If he can balance a couch on the sole strength of his legs, he shouldn’t have a problem flipping his boyfriend over when the latter is a little out of it. The element of surprise works in his favor and Atsumu has almost no trouble pinning Kiyoomi down.
"Now you've done it, Omi-kun," Atsumu groans, shoving his boyfriend's legs apart.
Kiyoomi is staring back with wide eyes, a bewildered expression painted on his beautiful face.
He's flushed, his eyes hooded with desire but his features are already morphing into something darker.
Trouble. Atsumu better be smart or he'll be in trouble. An appealing thought, honestly, as long as they both have fun.
"The fuck do you think you're doing?" Kiyoomi snarls, a hand flying toward Atsumu's chest.
Atsumu intercepts the movement with a swift motion, batting Kiyoomi's to reach down. He pulls his lover’s sweatshirt over his head in a frenzy then immediately goes for his neck before Kiyoomi can get his bearings.
Their erections press together the moment Atsumu's fingers settle around his lover's throat. Kiyoomi chokes on a moan, hips stuttering under Atsumu as he cranes his head back. He strains but Atsumu realizes immediately he doesn't really try to get out of his grasp and that alone makes him impossibly harder.
He'll always remember the day they found out about Kiyoomi's kink for breath play. Kiyoomi's complete loss of control and his admission of total trust for him.
It sends Atsumu reeling. Completely out of his mind, every time his fingers wrap around his lover's pale neck and he gets to give him something no one else was ever allowed to. Something Kiyoomi never thought he'd want from anyone.
Atsumu can entirely submit to the insane surge of desire that takes over him because he studied and researched the subject thoroughly.
His thumb and middle finger dig exactly where they should for Kiyoomi's eyes to slowly roll back and wash away his scowl.
Atsumu wants him so badly, he ends up fumbling with his other hand for the lube and half of what he tries to pour in his palm ends up dripping on the carpet.
Nevermind that, it actually makes him grin like the devil.
He pumps his cock the minimal amount to coat himself enough before pressing his fingers against Kiyoomi's hole.
He slides one in, sinking with less resistance than it would if Atsumu hadn’t fucked him deep and slow not even an hour ago. He feels his cock throb in anticipation.
"It’s just a carpet, Omi. Why you gotta be so pressed about it?" taunting, he leans over Kiyoomi, licking a long stripe along his jaw.
Atsumu pushes a second finger in immediately, crooking them.
A hand clamps around his wrist, Kiyoomi's nails digging in the soft flesh right under the heel of Atsumu's palm.
His lips part open but his eyes are almost closed, only a thin white line showing.
Atsumu totally reversed the play, the painful edging long forgotten. Kiyoomi doesn't even try to answer the relentless and vain comments. His body does it for him.
His thighs part, legs opening wide when Atsumu whispers into his ear:
"I know ya like it when I make a mess out of your things. When I make a mess out of ya."
It’s instant. Kiyoomi’s back arches off the floor, a drawn-out, obscene moan dripping past his lips.
The triggered reaction is rewarding but Atsumu wants to hear him more than that. He really needs to.
His grip on Kiyoomi’s throat eases at the same time Atsumu rocks his hips down, holding his cock to align himself. He barely brushes the tip against Kiyoomi’s clenching hole to tease before pushing in.
They both moan in unison. Kiyoomi is just tight enough for Atsumu to go crazy, and Atsumu’s cock probably feels too hard and thick after the relentless stimulation.
That’s why he thrusts in slowly and stops moving entirely once he bottoms out.
Kiyoomi’s eyes are shut tightly when Atsumu looks down to check on him.
His left hand is still loosely wrapped around Kiyoomi’s throat but he has to prop himself on the right one to avoid applying too much pressure and that way… That way it feels like Atsumu completely tamed Kiyoomi. He hovers above him, possessing him entirely.
There’s no power imbalance between them. Never was. Neither on the court, nor in their couple, even less in the bed sheets.
But they do compete, they do get heated, they do try to get the best of the other constantly and there’s something that resonates deep in their bones everytime one or the other gets to take control or give in and submit entirely.
“Fuck,” Atsumu gasps through gritted teeth, his cock twitching.
Kiyoomi clenches around him and Atsumu feels himself getting dizzy. He’s so close to coming.
He looks down at his boyfriend when he feels his throat move under his palm again.
“That would actually—be fucking nice, Miya,” Kiyoomi grunts, sounding husky, raspy voice dragging each syllab laboriously. “Looks like you are the mess.”
“Fuck!” Atsumu repeats, way louder.
He punctuates the glorious sentence by slamming into Kiyoomi hard. Once, twice. Kiyoomi’s grip on his wrist gets vicious, Atsumu tightens his hold on his throat again.
He fucks into him at a punitive pace. Kiyoomi gasps.
If the carpet has to be ruined, he might as well pound him through it.
“There, keep—” the words are breathless, cut short when Atsumu shifts slightly to deepen the angle he just found.
Kiyoomi wraps his thighs around Atsumu, clinging onto the arm that holds him down by the throat.
Atsumu really wants to pin him there and claim him, but too far gone, he can feel the familiar heat rising at the base of his spine, coiling through his stomach, blooming along his thighs… He can’t last like this.
They hold each other’s gaze with a dangerous passion, and despite the fact that Kiyoomi’s eyes are gleaming over with that feverish veil, Atsumu can see the challenge in them.
Kiyoomi is right. He is the mess.
Kiyoomi’s broken shout, his throat flexing under Atsumu’s palm, the tight heat he drives in like a madman… Atsumu feels like it’s too much, and suddenly he can’t feel anything but the powerful wave that wrecks his whole body when he comes deep inside Kiyoomi.
Somehow at the back of his mind, when he’s not busy screaming at his own self for giving in too soon, Atsumu registers the way Kiyoomi claws at his wrist so he doesn’t think and lets go.
Actually he has to let go of everything, collapsing on top of Kiyoomi as his hips move on their own accord and he grinds into Kiyoomi to ride his stupid orgasm selfishly.
This is so wrong, and yet it’s mind-blowingly good. Atsumu feels completely drunk.
He moans against his lover’s jaw, blindly searching for his mouth to desperately kiss him.
“Are you kidding me?”
Atsumu nevers finds it.
Kiyoomi lips move close enough to his mouth for him to feel it, and Atsumu hears his husky, scandalized voice all too clear now that his ears progressively stop buzzing, but he doesn’t get the kiss he craves so much.
His pliant, drained body even refuses to tense up in apprehension despite the alarm that blares in his fuzzy brain. His mind replays Kiyoomi’s earlier words.
You should be running.
Yes, Atsumu definitely should have made a run for it when he had the chance. Nevermind one of the best orgasms of his life.
If Kiyoomi tortured him previously by dragging things on, Atsumu was definitely not ready for what comes for him next.
He looks rather stupid now that he’s flipped over the carpet like a mere puppet, after priding himself in taming Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Atsumu is pressed once again face down on the irritating fabric, the slight burn on his cheek instantly revived while a pair of forceful hands grab him by the hips and pull his ass up.
He finally tenses all over when one of them leaves his waist to come down roughly on his perked up ass.
“Kiyoomi, wait!” Atsumu shouts, jolting through the stinging lingering sensation.
He tries to scramble away but his body doesn’t cooperate, still completely drained by the straining edging and his rushed climax.
Kiyoomi grabs him back by the asscheek he just spanked. Atsumu keens, ready to actually beg for mercy but whatever words he tries to force out ends up making him choke when his boyfriend knees his legs apart and finally slams into him.
The overstimulation is so intense that, for a few seconds, Atsumu forgets to close his mouth, until he feels some drool dribbling down his chin and right onto the rug.
He comes around, though, and the onslaught is really brutal. Even then, Atsumu’s softening cock pulses between his legs.
Maybe because Kiyoomi is drilling into him fast, pumping his hips in shallow, relentless thrusts that hammer dead-on on his prostate. Maybe because for a lazy Sunday, this is some pretty wild sex...
Atsumu doesn’t know, doesn’t care.
Kiyoomi fucks him roughly, rough enough for Atsumu’s knees to skid over the carpet and start burning but that’s the least of his concerns. A tiny bullet to add on the list of the hundred of overwhelming sensations that are taking over his body.
Kiyoomi holds him down, driving into him harder and harder until he’s bending over him entirely like he was when he was fingering him and Atsumu finds out it’s possible to come when he’s only half hard.
He blacks out for a short instant, — this orgasm less powerful but his mind reaching his limits — and when Atsumu comes down from it, Kiyoomi is twitching above him, body convulsing. He’s kissing his nape, or biting, a mix of both, probably to ground himself.
The obnoxious squelching sounds that come with the last pumps of Kiyoomi’s hips tell him what Atsumu already knows.
He is even more of a mess now, with cum dribbling out of him and down his thighs.
Well, he just came directly on the carpet, it’s not like that was the last straw, still… as Kiyoomi pulls out, groaning, his forehead pressed between Atsumu’s shoulder blades, Atsumu feels like they really went too far.
Incidentally, it’s the most exciting thing Atsumu could ever have imagined or hoped for.
But it’s not like he can scream in victory. Atsumu can’t move a single muscle.
He just lies there, in his own sticky mess, flopping on his stomach the moment Kiyoomi drops on his knees behind him.
For thirsty-ish long seconds, the room only resonates with their harsh synchronous breathing.
Atsumu recovers twice faster from nasty diving drills than he can recover from that, and that actually kills his pride as an athlete, so he decides to stop whining about the unbelievable exhaustion and rolls on his side instead.
Kiyoomi is sitting on the carpet at his feet, elbows propped on his bent knees as he struggles to draw a breath. That makes Atsumu smirk and he forces himself to stop panting.
He’s about to tease his boyfriend for that when he rolls completely to settle on his back but—
“Aw, shit,” he yelps. “Shit! Did ya really hafta spank me?”
Kiyoomi’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow. His pupils are still blown wide, his bangs falling over his face… Atsumu really is dating the most gorgeous man on this planet. It’s all fine, he was just done panting that the bastard had to go and steal his breath away once more.
“Sorry, your ass was parked in the way,” Kiyoomi drawls slowly.
And the words ring a bell. The little buttslap he gave Kiyoomi in the kitchen has nothing to do with the kind of spanking he delivered in retaliation.
“Excuse me? For real?” Atsumu starts, all dramatic. “Never seen someone hold so many grudges for so long in my entire life.” He tilts his head to the side, a crooked smirk curling his mouth. “Loosen up a little, Omi. You’re gonna have a nervous breakdown if ya harbor all this spite.”
Kiyoomi legs drop crossed in front of him and his eyes gleam with mischief. Ridiculously adorable. He’s still squinting at Atsumu with all his might.
“Speaking of nerves, you had the guts to ruin my carpet and pull that smug shit on me without even… whatever,” Kiyoomi sighs excessively, hiding the mocking tone behind his theatrics — as if Miya Atsumu didn’t invent theatrics. “Can’t even properly fuck me when you act that big.”
Atsumu’s ego should shake, but Kiyoomi is so… he looks so endearing and this situation is so terribly tragic, Atsumu can’t stop the stupid laugh that bubbles in his throat and rips his mouth open.
Atsumu is so in love with him, it’s going to kill him.
He calms down fast enough, but there are tears at the corner of his eyes when he genuinely answers:
“I’m not—I’m really not sorry, Omi. You’ve got no idea...”
He feels so drunk on endorphin, Atsumu feels like bouncing on Kiyoomi and tackling him down to hug him, but his body is sore and he still has some self-preservation instincts, so he refrains.
“You should be,” Kiyoomi eyes him, crossing his arms loosely to show the grumpy act is still up.
So Atsumu plays along.
“I know… I know! I’ll get ya another one, I don’t know. I don’t care. The sex was so good, damn!”
Yes, so drunk on endorphin Atsumu blurts out things at the top of his head, but it’s true. And he does sit up, squirming to avoid sitting on his stinging buttcheek, then places a hand on one of his boyfriend’s knees.
Kiyoomi doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t give in either. Even now, they’re trying to be the last one to get the last word in.
“You better get me another one, yeah.”
“I know. I’ll get you the exact same one. Can we please unpack about the sex? I’m so high right now, shit was—”
“Certainly not, and certainly not,” Kiyoomi interrupts, finally making contact, just to reach and try to pinch one of Atsumu’s nipples.
“The fuck!” he blurts out, jolting away and trapping his boyfriend’s hand against his chest with his own. “Calm down, ya gremlin,” he scolds lightly. “Certainly not what, now?”
Kiyoomi holds a critical glare that Atsumu knows is fake so he just moves forward to get on all four and crawl toward him.
Strategical error with his knees raw from carpet burns. He still leans into Kiyoomi who turns his head away when he tries to kiss him.
“You’re getting me a new carpet, certainly not the same one,” he then deadpans.
“Why? Is this because the sex was so great? Because I insist we need to unpack real hard here. So it’s cause ya can’t stand the idea of staring at it everyday and remember how good the sex was?”
“If you say that the sex was good just one more time, I’m never fucking you ever again, Miya,” Kiyoomi threatens but this time, he finally turns his head back again to press a short kiss to Atsumu’s lips.
“You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever met, Omi-kun!”
Atsumu tries to bite his lips but Kiyoomi pushes a hand in his face to make him back off.
“Anyway, no. It’s not because the sex was mindblowing. It’s because I hated it.”
Kiyoomi curiously averts his gaze as he says so.
It’s a good thing Atsumu is slowly recovering his mental faculties because at first, it’s honestly the most confusing thing he’s ever heard.
“You hated—you—the sex or—”
But then, the only thing that would make sense...
“Oh my god, Kiyoomi-kun! You absolute bastard, wait a minute...”
Kiyoomi has the audacity to roll his eyes on top of it all. When, for once, Atsumu is pretty sure he’s entirely allowed to be that dramatic. Confirmed a second later when his lover admits:
“I’ve been wanting to change it for ages. I hated this carpet, it clashes with my new curtains so bad, it’s ugly as—”
“You what —ongoddontactuallyrepeatit! Fuckin’ hell Omi-kun, ya really wanted to fuck me sooooo bad.”
Atsumu can’t believe his own ears. He can’t, he just cannot. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the only man he’s ever loved in his life, is the whole deal.
“I strongly advise that you shut up now, because this time I clearly can’t fuck you again, and I’ll have to find other ways to destroy you,” Kiyoomi warns him, gripping Atsumu’s shoulders to try and stop him from gesturing all wildly.
“It’s fine, ya know. Just say so next time, I’ll indulge ya,” Atsumu teases obnoxiously because he’s never letting him live it down ever. “But if ya insist, really, I think you’d completely and utterly wreck me by cuddlin’ me a little bit.’
He moves accordingly, shaking his boyfriend’s hands off to try and embrace him, almost tripping over when Kiyoomi tries to shield himself.
“No, Atsumu, the next thing I’m doing when my body can move is run to the shower. That was hands down the grossest outcome ever,” he says but when Atsumu almost headbutts him, he presses a new kiss to his temple.
Stealing it just before he tries to get away again.
“Nah. It was the hottest way to come ever,” Atsumu corrects with a smirk.
Kiyoomi lets out a chuckle.
The way his expression morphs back into a pout doesn’t work one second. Atsumu gives him the eyes and Kiyoomi sighs.
“They’re not mutually exclusive,” he admits, his lips twitching into a smirk.
“Hug me, Omi.”
Atsumu pushes into him, hands settling in his boyfriend’s lap and… gross. Yes, okay, it’s sticky, all wet and slick. They really, really made a mess.
“I’ll roll you inside that disgusting rug and drop you in the river at dusk,” Kiyoomi says but he does lean in to chase his mouth.
“Okay, fair. No hug then—” Atsumu breathes out against his lips.
One kiss will do.
But Kiyoomi doesn’t just give him that, he really drags him into his lap and kisses him with so much passion Atsumu melts against Kiyoomi instantly.
Lazy Sundays can really start any way they want, Atsumu is down for anything as long as he gets to spend them in the arms of the man he’s madly in love with.