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Atsumu accepts an intricately designed glass chalice from a tray-carrying servant with a bright smile and many thanks. His eyes flit around the packed ballroom as he takes his first, indulgent sip, the red wine warming his stomach.
As his gaze passes over somewhat familiar faces, he once again reminds himself that coming here tonight was probably a terrible idea. His only salvation is the low, golden hue cast by the large ceiling chandeliers and the masks worn in celebration of the masquerade. If he’s careful, perhaps nobody will recognize him.
Atsumu stands near a large group of party guests to blend into the noise and jovial pop and circumstance of the ball. For a moment, he enjoys the lively lilt of the orchestra, string instruments and drums working together to create pretty sounding notes that excite the party goers into a well known dance. Hundreds of guests sway and swing to the music, ball gowns swirling into a blur as male counterparts twirl their ladies around and round. In the liminal space between one song ending and another beginning, cheers ring out and drinks are clinked.
Atsumu itches to join since it’s hard to pass up a dance, and he probably will at some point to keep his cover, but for now he throws back his wine and feels the swell of the music pound in time with his heart.
As his body and mind relaxes with the warmth of his alcohol, Atsumu’s mask feels tight and uncomfortable on his face, along with the luxurious outfit he wears. However, it’s custom for a masquerade ball, so there’s not much he can do. He adjusts the mask slightly, a pretty, cream and gold beaded mask designed to look like the face of a fox. The ears point up slightly, as if growing from his bleached, tousled hair, and the mask itself only covers the top half of his face to allow his mouth free for drinking. And for whatever else he pleases to get up to tonight.
If he takes out his mark before the end of the night, he’s not opposed to having a dance with a lady of court and following her into one of the chambers leading from the massive ballroom. For now, though, he needs to be a professional.
As he listens to the loud music echo off the stone walls of the ballroom, Atsumu glances over to the raised platform where the throne rests. Sitting prettily on the throne is Prince Akaashi, who watches over the party with one slender leg thrown over the other. This masquerade ball is being held in his honor, so he can mingle with nobles, lords, and ladies so he can find his future lover. Atsumu thinks this party is such a waste of time, considering how obvious it is that Lord Bokuto will be chosen as Prince Akaashi’s future husband. Even though Atsumu is often busy, and this scene isn’t really his thing anymore, he still keeps up with the rumors surrounding court. There’s always some royal who wants someone taken care of, and Atsumu is more than happy to answer that call.
Atsumu is about to slip into the crowd before the next song starts, but he hears an incredulous voice ask, “Haruto-san, is that you?”
Atsumu cringes at the use of his old alias. He’d recognize that voice anymore, so Atsumu isn’t surprised when he turns and sees Lord Hinata approaching him.
“What’s the point of the masks if you can still tell who everyone is?” Atsumu jokes, but it comes out flat due to the truth of it. He really doesn’t want to be recognized tonight; he just wants to blend in the best he can and finish his job. Another reason why being here tonight is foolish.
Hinata laughs, shaking his head. Even with his black, bird-like mask that glitters under the glow of the chandeliers, anyone who knows Hinata would recognize him by his flaming red hair.
“I can’t believe it! It’s been, what, years?”
It’s somewhat hard to hear him over the music, but Hinata’s voice is plenty loud.
“Just about,” Atsumu returns with a smile. To steer the conversation away from himself, Atsumu asks, “How are ya doin’?”
“Amazing,” Hinata exclaims, but then he tilts his head. “We all miss you, Haruto-san. Court is so much more boring without you.”
Atsumu does his best to keep his smile up, despite how uncomfortable Hinata’s prodding is making him. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. Oikawa-kun is always a good time.”
Hinata laughs again and nods, before taking a sip of his own drink.
Atsumu takes advantage of the lull in the conversation to squeeze Hinata’s shoulder and say, “Hey, let’s catch up later. I promised someone a dance.”
Hinata looks disappointed, but he agrees to a later conversation. Atsumu swiftly walks away from Hinata, pretending to glance around for the “someone” he’s supposed to dance with since he can still feel Hinata’s eyes on him. Once he gets far enough into the crowd, he drops the act and downs the last of his wine. He doesn’t stop walking, placing the empty glass on a tray held by a servant walking by and continuing to the other side of the room. He picks up another glass of wine before he settles near another group of party guests, who he blessedly doesn’t recognize.
Atsumu decides it’s time to get serious, especially since he now needs to leave before Hinata comes running for another conversation. He casually drinks his wine as he takes note of all of the exits, only one toward the other side of the ballroom. Then he counts the guards, which consists of two by the exit, four beside Prince Akaashi, and three strolling around the masquerade. It’s not the worst security Atsumu has ever faced, but he’s starting to think it will be best if he can get his target alone and away from the ball.
Atsumu’s heart flutters at the thought of getting his mark alone, since he knows it’s a fruitless effort. Also, it’s him . Atsumu has been an assassin for the majority of his life, and this might be his trickiest target to date.
Those in Atsumu’s network call him Raven, since his presence is a bad omen, but Atsumu knows him as Sakusa Kiyoomi. Though, Atsumu has no reason to believe that’s his real name.
Atsumu met him a few months back, at a party he had weaseled his way into in order to complete a job. Atsumu should’ve kept the evening strictly business, he realizes that now, but he had laid his eyes on the most beautiful man he’s ever seen and spent the majority of the evening chatting him up. At first, Sakusa had been largely disinterested, which should’ve put Atsumu off but it only made him want Sakusa more. They eventually fell into a witty back-and-forth, toeing the line on flirting, and it made Atsumu’s stomach twist with excitement. He figured he could take out his mark and take this man to bed, so he felt like he was on top of the world. Eventually, Atsumu practically begged for this man’s name, and he was surprisingly met with a quiet, “Sakusa. Sakusa Kiyoomi.” At some point, Sakusa excused himself to refill his drink. Atsumu waited for him to return, but he never did. Frustrated, Atsumu decided to leave to take out his mark so he could find Sakusa later, but when Atsumu went to the private chambers his mark was staying in, he found that his mark had already had his throat slit.
It was the first job Atsumu had ever fucked up. The only slight on his otherwise perfect record.
It wasn’t until a few days later that Atsumu heard rumors about a new assassin in the scene, who people only knew by his dark head of hair and piercing eyes. The name “Raven” floated around, and Atsumu realized all at once that the man he had been so desperate for had taken out his mark while all Atsumu did was spend the evening flirting like an idiot.
Atsumu is a prideful person, so the entire thing made him feel completely mortified and embarrassed. How can Atsumu claim to be one of the greatest assassins in Japan when one gorgeous man can get the drop on him? He has no idea if Sakusa knew Atsumu’s true intentions for being at the party, but so many in their network know about Atsumu’s trademark bleached hair. He knows the way he looks and dresses makes his job harder, but those added challenges just make it so much more satisfying when he still maintains his status as the most contracted assassin in Japan. So, it’s safe to say that Sakusa did know who Atsumu was, and effectively made Atsumu look like a fool.
Now, Atsumu just wants revenge for how Sakusa embarrassed him. Especially since rumors of Sakusa’s talents continue spreading and more and more people start to hire him over Atsumu. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a goddamn mystery; Atsumu has no idea how he got involved in the world of assassination or how long he’s been doing it. Atsumu frankly doesn’t care, since he hopefully won’t be breathing by the end of the night.
Atsumu had been contracted for a job to kill some Lord at this masquerade, but it had suddenly fallen through. There’s only one person that could’ve been offered the job instead. Atsumu decided that he would still attend the masquerade in hopes of finding Sakusa, and ending his pathetic life.
Atsumu continues surveying the party, the harmonious notes of the orchestra never taking a break as masked guests continue drinking and dancing. Atsumu starts to think that this entire evening is a bust since he hasn’t seen Sakusa once. He’s about to do one more walk-through of the party to try to find Sakusa, but then he suddenly spots Sakusa out of the corner of his eye.
Sakusa is well-hidden, standing in a poorly lit corner and engulfed in shadows. Anyone not paying much attention would never notice him. Not Atsumu. Atsumu recognizes him right away, despite the mask Sakusa wears. Sakusa is dressed in a black suit with a bit of a white cravat peeking out the collar. His arms are crossed over his chest as he looks out into the crowd.
When Atsumu sees him, all of those ugly feelings of inferiority and embarrassment come swirling up and Atsumu practically feels sick with it. Atsumu fucking hates him.
After downing the rest of his wine and replacing it with another glass chalice, Atsumu stalks over to where Sakusa stands. He checks his arms to ensure the daggers he has concealed in his sleeves are still there. He probably shouldn’t let his mark learn of his presence, but Atsumu feels inexplicably pulled to Sakusa. He can’t resist the satisfaction of letting Sakusa know he’s here and still taking him down.
As he gets closer, Atsumu sees that Sakusa’s mask covers half of his face and is made up of black, lacy fabric. Even if Atsumu didn’t recognize him because of his mask, Atsumu would know the curls tumbling over his brows anywhere after spending an entire night imagining tugging on them. Sakusa looks like a dream, all rich blacks and the milky white of his skin.
Atsumu’s heart races as he settles beside Sakusa, drinking his wine as he looks at the twirling dresses and leading men. Atsumu can practically feel the tension rolling off of Sakusa, even if Sakusa doesn’t turn to look at him.
“You kind of look like this bastard I know,” Atsumu tells him, barely containing the heat behind his words. “Take off yer mask and let’s see if you share the two moles he has dotted…Right. Here.” Atsumu punctuates his words by pointing above his own brow.
Sakusa doesn’t say anything, which just pisses Atsumu off more. Sakusa also doesn’t move, because even though he definitely has at least a few weapons on him, he must know he can’t just kill Atsumu in public.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” Atsumu spits out, finally turning to look at him. “Cat got yer tongue?”
Atsumu sees the muscle in Sakusa’s chiseled jaw jump, and it makes Atsumu smirk with sick delight.
“Or are ya just so happy to see me here tonight that you’re havin’ trouble findin’ the words to convey your surprise?”
“You’re fucking insufferable,” Sakusa whispers under his breath, pushing off the wall to walk away.
“And he speaks!” Atsumu calls out to him. “Want to at least enlighten me on yer target?”
Without slowing down or turning around, Sakusa mutters, “You.”
Kiyoomi’s heartbeat is so loud he can hear it ringing in his ears as he walks away from Miya, still feeling Miya’s eyes boring into his back.
Fuck. What the fuck is he doing here?
Did Miya have another target here tonight, and just happened upon Kiyoomi?
Kiyoomi sighs. It doesn’t matter, because now Miya knows Kiyoomi is here and is probably planning every painful way of making Kiyoomi bleed.
Kiyoomi makes it to the other side of the room without jostling into anyone and finds another corner to hide in. He doesn’t realize how harsh his breaths are coming out until he’s able to catch his breath.
His original mark wasn’t Miya, so Kiyoomi doesn’t know why the fuck he said that. It was easier to deal with him when Miya had no idea who Kiyoomi was, and Miya just acted like a bumbling idiot. And now Kiyoomi has pissed off the most arrogant, frustrating assassin in the scene. He has no idea if Miya Atsumu is even his real name, but Kiyoomi went to that party the night they met knowing “Fox” would be there, one of the most feared assassins in Japan. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together that Miya was Fox when Kiyoomi got him progressively more drunk and Miya couldn’t come up with a convincing reason for being at the party. Miya also fit everything Kiyoomi had heard about Fox. Bleached hair, thick accent, and a personality that makes you want to rip your hair out. After meeting Miya, Kiyoomi was more than pleased to steal his mark right out from under him. Anything to humble that childish prick. Kiyoomi has no idea how Miya is so successful considering he’s hopelessly annoying. Maybe he talks his marks to death.
The thought makes Kiyoomi smirk. Shit, he would love to knock Miya down a few pegs. He would love to make him cry and beg for forgiveness.
Suddenly, the image of a desperate Miya underneath him, his cheeks blotchy and wet with tears, makes Kiyoomi’s stomach flutter. Kiyoomi feels a sudden rush at the idea of making Miya submit to him. It’s a dangerous fantasy, and Kiyoomi pushes it down. No . He can’t think like that, not when he needs to find a way to kill both Miya and his actual mark for the evening. He won’t let Miya Atsumu distract him.
Despite all of Miya’s apparent faults, he must be smarter than he lets on. For one, Kiyoomi heard the name Fox pretty quickly after joining the scene just a few months back. It also seems that Miya easily pieced together that Kiyoomi was Raven, even if Kiyoomi loathed the nickname his contractors gave him. And it means that if Miya isn’t here for another job, he managed to track down Kiyoomi despite Kiyoomi being generally extremely careful. So, even if Miya gets under his skin, Kiyoomi can’t underestimate him and let his guard down.
Kiyoomi glances out into the dancing crowd as the orchestra’s notes pick up speed into a symphony Kiyoomi recognizes as a waltz. The weighty bass notes echo throughout the ballroom in a bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum pattern, becoming more energetic as they pair with lively strings. The beat thumps with Kiyoomi’s heart, and he feels a buzz in his veins as he watches party guests twirl and dip to the rhythm.
He sees Miya entering the crowd, hand-in-hand with a beautiful lady whose powder blue dress compliments the creams and golds of Miya’s attire. Kiyoomi hates dancing, hates being in a crowd even more, but he wonders if he could get away with murdering Miya during the chaos of the dance. Killing someone in public is risky, especially with so many guards around, but surely Kiyoomi can slip away long before people realize a man has fallen from a dagger to the throat. It’s easier than trying to get Miya alone at least.
With a heavy sigh, Kiyoomi walks straight up to a woman standing alone, who wears a glittering red dress and matching mask.
“Dance with me,” Kiyoomi deadpans, not a fan of pleasantries. The woman looks startled at first, but then she smiles and takes Kiyoomi’s leather-gloved hand so he can lead her into the dance circle.
There’s about twenty or so couples slipping into the well known waltz, so it’s easy for Kiyoomi and his dance partner to fall into step.
Kiyoomi glances around, and immediately locks eyes with Miya, who’s already looking right at Kiyoomi.
It’s almost impossible to hear the bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum of the orchestra over the thundering of his heart when Atsumu sees Sakusa join the group waltz. Their eyes meet, and Atsumu watches as the golden light of the chandeliers glitters on Sakusa’s dark hair and smoldering eyes. Atsumu itches to release his dance partner to feel for one of his daggers.
Is Sakusa bold enough to attempt murdering Atsumu in the middle of the crowd? Atsumu suddenly realizes how little he knows about Sakusa, but Sakusa seems to be pretentious enough to break into the assassin scene and steal a mark right out from under Atsumu, so perhaps he’s more than up for the challenge of killing Atsumu during this dance.
Atsumu briefly loses eye contact with Sakusa when the dance requires him to spin his dancing partner around. Atsumu frantically looks around to try to catch Sakusa’s gaze again, and his heart drops to his stomach when he notices Sakusa already watching him. From this distance, Atsumu thinks he can see a sliver of a smirk. He doesn’t realize he’s gripping his lady’s hand tightly until she winces. Atsumu is forced to look away from Sakusa so he can mutter a quick apology.
As they sway and dip to the increasingly boisterous strings, Atsumu spins his lady closer to the center of the ballroom, panic swelling in his chest when he sees Sakusa and his dance partner get closer and closer. Atsumu curses under his breath. Atsumu is talented, but can he get away with killing Sakusa first when he has a civilian on his arm? Does he risk scaring her, or worse, hurting her, in order to get closer to Sakusa and strike first?
A million thoughts race through Atsumu’s mind as his thumping heart pulses in his fingertips. The weighty, rich sound of the instruments causes dread to settle in Atsumu’s gut, twisting and clawing. He feels choked with it.
Atsumu is so distracted trying to keep an eye on Sakusa that he doesn’t even notice that dance partners start to break away to spin and switch partners. He feels his lady’s hand slip from his as she sways and grabs the hand of someone else. For a split second, Atsumu feels like he’s free-falling, spiraling in that seemingly extended second when he’s alone. And then, a gloved hand wraps around his, and another settles on his shoulder. As the music swells and cymbals crash, Atsumu looks directly into Sakusa’s wild eyes.
Atsumu instinctively squeezes Sakusa’s hand, heat creeping up the back of his neck as Sakusa quickly spins them with each resounding crash of the cymbals. If Atsumu could just reach for a dagger, maybe-
Sakusa’s hand on Atsumu’s shoulder drags closer to his neck, and Atsumu tenses as Sakusa’s thumb presses into his pulse. Sakusa’s fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling Atsumu closer so their bodies press together into a warm line. Atsumu inhales sharply, heating rapidly pooling in his gut despite the spike of fear in his chest. For a moment, it’s like they’re dancing with no pretenses and no presumed threats of death. Sakusa’s breaths are harsh and warm on Atsumu’s cheek, and Atsumu lowers his free hand to brush over the dip in Sakusa’s back.
Atsumu waits for a dagger to find his side, one he doesn’t see coming because his mind is growing sluggish at how inexplicably pleasant it is for their hips to line up as Sakusa sways them. Atsumu grips the back of Sakusa’s suit, bunching it to encourage Sakusa to move his hips more firmly against his.
Sakusa mumbles something under his breath, something Atsumu feels on his cheek but can’t hear over the loud roar of the strings and drums, and Sakusa’s grip on Atsumu’s hand grows painfully tight.
Atsumu could release Sakusa’s suit and slip his dagger out of his sleeve right now if he wanted to. His fingers twitch against the soft fabric, and he slowly starts to slacken his grip. He wonders if Sakusa will know what he’s planning once he lets go, and his mind stumbles through the possibilities. Is he faster than Sakusa? Who would reach their blades first?
Fuck. The deciding factor is the hatred burning white hot in Atsumu’s chest. He can’t let this fucking prick get him first. He can’t die here, snuffed out by this fucking asshole.
Sakusa must think the same thing, because just as Atsumu lets go of Sakusa’s suit, Sakusa takes his hand away from Atsumu’s neck.
Shit shit shit. I can’t die. I can’t fucking die here. I can’t die here when no one even knows who I-
As Atsumu starts to unsheathe his dagger, the strings and drums and cymbals all come together for one final explosion of sound before echoing into silence.
Atsumu stills, and he feels that Sakusa is similarly frozen against him. As couples start to cheer and clap around them, Atsumu's chest heaves against Sakusa’s as he catches his breath. Sakusa’s hand had fallen to his arm, and now his fingers curl around Atsumu’s bicep. Sakusa tips his hips against Atsumu’s again, and Atsumu's brain melts when he feels that Sakusa is hard.
Atsumu realizes belatedly that he’s straining against his slacks as well, caused by some horrible mixture of fear and adrenaline, paired with the delicious friction of Sakusa against him.
On his shuddering exhale, Atsumu pulls away slightly, meeting Sakusa’s gaze. Under the golden hue of the chandeliers, Atsumu can finally see that Sakusa’s eyes are glazed over. It’s unspoken, the intense look they share. One moment, Atsumu is frozen in place, and the next he’s being pulled away from the dance floor by Sakusa’s bruising grip.
As they slip out of the entrance and down the empty hallways, Atsumu’s head is too fuzzy to make out anything but the slaps of their shoes against the concrete floor.
I shouldn’t go with him. This is a trap.
Atsumu suddenly feels like a fucking fool again, an idiot that Sakusa plays like a fiddle. It’s mortifying, being so desperate and aching for someone who wants to kill him.
He looks at Sakusa out of the corner of his eye and sees that Sakusa is glaring at the space in front of him. He wonders if Sakusa is even planning on killing him anymore. Surely Sakusa would look smug instead, right? If he was able to successfully lure Atsumu alone?
There isn’t much more time to think after Sakusa pulls him into a bedroom and slams the door shut, caging Atsumu against the door and kissing him roughly.
Miya groans into his mouth, and Kiyoomi feels like a frenzied animal, licking into Miya’s mouth like he wants to fucking consume him. Something about Miya makes Kiyoomi feel the need to break something. He had wanted to kill Miya during that dance and instead ended up overwhelmed with the desire to take him. If Kiyoomi needs to break something, that something is going to be Miya fucking Atsumu.
Miya’s head falls against the door with a thud, so Kiyoomi braces himself and rolls down hard against Miya.
“Fuck,” Miya sighs, his hands slipping into Kiyoomi’s thick curls and his hips jerking forward. Kiyoomi lowers his mouth to the base of Miya’s neck and bites down as he continues to rut his hips against Miya’s, and Miya tightens his grip on Kiyoomi’s hair. It’s so reminiscent of fucking that Kiyoomi feels his skin burn, made hotter underneath the layers of fabric.
Their bodies smack against the door, causing it to rattle and creak. Kiyoomi could get off like this, moving against Miya so frantically he feels like he’s losing his mind.
Suddenly, Miya lets go of his hair and pushes against his chest roughly, causing Kiyoomi to stumble back.
“Get on the bed,” Miya spits out, his hands flying to his pants to unbutton his cream-colored slacks.
Feeling a surge of rage pulse through him, Kiyoomi grabs the front of Miya’s coat jacket and spins him around, causing Miya to curse and stumble until Kiyoomi shoves him onto the edge of the bed.
“Who the fuck said you were in charge?” Kiyoomi mutters, voice low. He takes off his gloves and tucks them in the inside pocket of his coat jacket, then he walks up to Miya and starts unbuttoning his own slacks.
“You’re the one who dragged me here,” Miya challenges.
“Yes, because you’re going to take what I give you and fucking like it.”
The only light in the room is the moonlight coming in through the windows. Still, Kiyoomi can see Miya’s eyes widen. Kiyoomi hisses as he frees himself, giving himself a few cursory strokes to bring himself to full hardness. Miya’s eyes travel down to Kiyoomi’s dick, and his mouth falls open before snapping shut. Kiyoomi knows he’s well-endowed, but Miya looking scared of his dick gives him a rush of power. It feels incredible.
“Open,” Kiyoomi commands. Kiyoomi feels twisted delight when Miya complies, opening his mouth wide for Kiyoomi, his pink tongue peeking out. Kiyoomi surges forward, gripping the sides of Miya’s hair tightly as he slides his dick down Miya’s throat in one, forceful thrust. He feels when Miya groans, feels the way Miya’s throat spasms around Kiyoomi’s length.
Spurred on, Kiyoomi doesn’t give Miya a chance to adjust before he’s pulling out and thrusting back into Miya’s mouth at a brutal pace. Miya’s hands fly to Kiyoomi’s hips, digging his nails into Kiyoomi’s skin through his layers of clothes.
“You like this,” Kiyoomi accuses, his voice rough. “You act all prideful but what you really want is someone to put you in your place.”
As if to confirm this, Miya moans, squeezing his eyes shut as Kiyoomi continues fucking his face.
“Fuck,” Kiyoomi curses, feeling so deliriously high when Miya opens his eyes again and Kiyoomi sees tears starting to catch on his lashes, wetting and clumping them.
“Disgusting,” Kiyoomi tells him, seeing what a mess he’s making of Miya. Saliva is drooling out of the side of Miya’s mouth, and his eyes are rimmed red as he breathes harshly through his nose. “Look how quickly you gave up everything for me.”
Kiyoomi feels Miya whine, a sound that catches in Miya’s throat.
“You like that?” Kiyoomi blurts out, before he can stop himself. “Being mine?”
Miya looks up at him, his amber eyes doe-like and glimmering. Miya’s hands slip under Kiyoomi’s coat jacket and smooth over Kiyoomi’s lower back, such a surprisingly tender touch. It’s suddenly too much for Kiyoomi, and he doesn’t know if he can control himself enough to not come down Miya’s throat dangerously quickly.
Goosebumps break out on Kiyoomi’s skin as he pulls out, a string of saliva connecting from the tip of Kiyoomi’s throbbing dick to Miya’s wet bottom lip.
“Lay against the headboard,” Kiyoomi chokes out, shaking as he sees Miya scramble to do what he’s told. Kiyoomi quickly searches the nightstand closest to him and is relieved to see a tiny bottle of lubrication. When Kiyoomi turns back to Miya, he sees that Miya is trying to lower his slacks and underwear down. Kiyoomi reaches out and grabs Miya’s wrist, twisting it away from his pants. Miya inhales sharply at the pain.
“What, did you think I was going to fuck you?” Kiyoomi wonders, laughing humorlessly.
“You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” Miya spits at him, his voice hoarse from his throat being fucked. He looks pissed off, but he doesn’t object when Kiyoomi settles on the bed and between his legs.
Kiyoomi is too worked up to do anything but pull his pants down just enough, pour the lubrication onto his fingers, and work himself open. It’s straightforward and to the point. Miya’s hands rub over Kiyoomi’s clothed thighs, another shockingly sweet touch that Kiyoomi hadn’t expected. Miya’s warm hands leave little trails of fire on Kiyoomi’s skin. Miya’s looking up at him with some surprised expression, like he’s not sure why he even enjoys being dominated, and the rapt attention makes Kiyoomi’s stomach twist.
“Look at you,” Miya breathes, looking awestruck. “You’re gorgeous.”
Kiyoomi’s cheeks burn, and he feels like this is starting to get away from him. He hates that Miya’s compliments make his chest warm. He hates that he wants to keep hearing them. He recalls how Miya had flirted with him the night they met, and he’s starting to think Miya didn’t frustrate him because it was annoying, but because Kiyoomi liked it.
Kiyoomi groans when he feels that he’s ready, and he pulls his fingers out. His fingers tremble as he pulls down Miya’s underwear, causing Miya’s dick to bob free. For a moment, Kiyoomi just stares, everything feeling too real all at once. He’s about to fuck his enemy, someone he wanted to drive a dagger through not even fifteen minutes prior. Miya had tried to take his dagger out, Kiyoomi is sure of it. Miya can do that now, too. There’s nothing stopping him. The fear is shockingly thrilling.
“Get on my dick or get out,” Miya says, breaking Kiyoomi out of his thoughts.
Kiyoomi snorts. “So needy. Don’t you have any shame?”
Miya’s eyes shimmer with something complicated as Kiyoomi rises up so he can line Miya up to his entrance.
“I fuckin’ hate you,” Miya complains, and Kiyoomi sinks down.
They both groan, the desperate sounds echoing in the otherwise quiet room. Kiyoomi admittedly hasn’t been fucked in a long, long time. He hasn’t trusted many people since joining the assassination scene. He doesn’t trust Miya either, not remotely, but fuck he missed feeling so full, so stuffed to the point of feeling suffocated. Miya feels amazing.
Kiyoomi bites his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood as he starts to set his own pace, anything to hold back his moans. He steadies his hands on Miya’s shoulders, letting Miya grip his hips to help keep himself balanced. The borderline-painful drag is so intoxicating that Kiyoomi feels heat prickling his skin, and feels his throat close up. He wishes he had loosened his cravat, but he refuses to let go of Miya when it feels like the only thing keeping him steady.
“Fu-uuuck,” Miya moans, his mouth hanging open. “You feel so fuckin’ good. So- hah- so good.”
Kiyoomi throws his head back, bouncing on Miya’s dick like he fucking owns it. He finally lets himself enjoy it, lets himself enjoy the burning stretch and the way Miya’s dick drags over that sweet spot with every grind down. His thighs start to burn, but he can’t stop. Kiyoomi feels like he’s becoming maddeningly addicted to this, addicted to Miya’s broken moans and mumbled praise.
Miya starts to buck his hips up, so Kiyoomi scowls at him and slaps his cheek. Miya’s head turns with the impact.
“Shit,” Miya curses. “Fuck, harder.”
“Stay still and I’ll give you what you want,” Kiyoomi whispers, too affected to project his voice any louder.
Miya does as he’s told, keeping his hips still, and he starts to shake with the effort.
“Good boy.”
Miya gasps. “M’gonna,” he slurs. “Shit, gonna-”
“You’ll come when I say you can.”
“Fuck you, you fuckin’ ass-”
Kiyoomi slaps him again, harder this time, and Miya moans.
Miya gazes up at him, and Kiyoomi realizes with a jolt that Miya is crying with the effort not to come. Tears run down from under his mask and fall off his jaw. Holding off his orgasm makes him look like he’s in pain, like he’s terrified of the pleasure he’s feeling right now. He truly wants to be that good for Kiyoomi? Did the thought of being Kiyoomi’s entice him that much?
Kiyoomi’s not going to last, not when he’s done exactly what he set out to do. Not when he’s broken Miya down and reduced him to tears. Not when he doesn’t exactly dislike the idea of Miya being his.
“Please,” Miya begs, his voice cracking on the word, and it hits Kiyoomi so hard that he barely touches his own dick before he sees stars as comes.
Kiyoomi gasps, mine, mine, mine swirling around in his head, grinding down on Miya’s dick to ride out his own pleasure. Kiyoomi has never felt like this, so drunk on pleasure and power that he feels like it might boil him alive. What the fuck is Miya doing to him?
“Come,” Kiyoomi shouts at Miya, losing his grip on himself. “Come for me right now.”
And Miya does, sobbing as he trembles through his orgasm, throbbing inside of Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi squeezes around him, the aftershocks of pleasure making him dizzy. When Miya chokes on his next sob, his body going limp and his eyes falling shut, Kiyoomi can’t help but kiss him again. It’s so easy to lick into Miya’s warm, pliant mouth. Miya whimpers softly when Kiyoomi pulls away with Miya’s bottom lip between his teeth.
Kiyoomi’s heart thunders in his chest, and he can hear static in his ears. For a moment, Kiyoomi just looks down at Miya, at his kiss-swollen lips and his tears drying on his cheeks. He looks debauched even with his mask on, beyond wrecked and exhausted, but Kiyoomi can’t remember ever being more attracted to anyone in his life. He felt a thrill the first time he met Miya, even if he refused to admit it, but now? Kiyoomi can’t believe he almost killed Miya before he got to experience this.
Kiyoomi gently runs his thumb over Miya’s bottom lip, and Miya hums appreciatively. The urge to kiss him again is so strong that Kiyoomi forces himself to rise onto his knees and get off of Miya, his thighs quivering with the effort.
A groan rumbles out of Miya’s chest, and he stirs slightly, but he surprisingly makes no move to open his eyes or get up. Kiyoomi feels filthy all of the sudden, as Miya’s release starts to drip down his thigh, so he grabs the nearest washcloth he finds and runs it over himself, hissing at how sensitive he still feels. He keeps an eye on Miya as he tucks himself back into his slacks and buttons them, making sure Miya doesn’t reach for any weapons.
Kiyoomi can hardly believe this. Kiyoomi was the one who was fucked, yet Miya is acting like he was. Too blissed out to even open his eyes. Kiyoomi stills, unsure if Miya is intoxicated on being used, or being Kiyoomi’s, more. Probably both. It’s distressing how much Kiyoomi hopes it’s both.
Kiyoomi tosses the rag at Miya’s chest. Miya groans, finally blinking his eyes open. His movements look languid as he slowly grabs the rag and starts wiping himself off. Once he’s clean, he buttons his slacks and gets up. Kiyoomi sits on the bed, close to the headboard, as he watches Miya go over to a bar cart in the corner of the room and pour himself a drink.
Kiyoomi needs to kill Miya, he screams at himself, feeling for his dagger tucked into his sleeve. If he doesn’t, he’s terrified that he’ll let this happen a second time if they ever meet again. Kiyoomi can’t allow that, because he knows he doesn’t feel the same hatred in his heart as he did earlier, not when he sees Miya turn around and smile into his glass.
Atsumu can feel Sakusa’s eyes on him as he sits at the edge of the bed, staring at the door as he sips his drink. Atsumu reaches up and takes his mask off, placing it on the bed beside him. It’s relieving, not wearing that heavy thing.
He pauses before taking his next sip, waiting to hear if Sakusa starts to move, but he doesn’t hear anything.
“You know, I have a brother,” Atsumu starts, his heart a mess of emotions. Atsumu swallows thickly. “We’ve been doin’ this since we were kids, to make money. A few years ago, he got out of this life. Met someone who made all of this not worth it anymore. I tried to get out of this life too, because I felt so lost without him, and for a while I pretended I was some Lord. I lived at court. Can ya believe that?” Atsumu chuckles. “It was fine, for the most part, but it still felt like I couldn't get close with anyone. I had to lie about who I was, and for the first time in my life I felt guilty over it. So I left. I started taking jobs again. I met you.”
Atsumu looks down at his drink as he frowns, shaking the glass cup and watching the amber liquid swirl around. With a sigh, Atsumu says, “I fuckin’ hate ya, but do ya know that you’re the only person I’ve told my real name to? Sure, I told you when I was drunk and I just wanted to fuck you, but the truth remains that you’re the only person who knows even a piece of who the real me is. Maybe that’s why I hate you so much. Some stupid part of me thinks I can get close to you, even if I know I should kill you. You fuckin’ infuriate me. I mean, your personality sucks. Killing you would make my life so much easier. Yet, I keep hesitating. I try to rack my brain to figure out why, but the only thing I can come up with is this: I like knowin’ someone out there knows the real me. I kind of want to know the real you, too.”
Atsumu tips back his drink, savoring the warmth of the alcohol. After a few more beats of silence, Atsumu starts to look over his shoulder, his heart seizing as he expects a blade to meet his throat, but he sees that the bed is empty. Sakusa is gone. Atsumu looks at the other side of the room and sees a window is open now, the curtains billowing as warm, summer air rushes in.
With a soft laugh, Atsumu returns his gaze to his drink. He raises it into the air.
“Until we meet again, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu whispers, before bringing his glass to his lips and taking a sip.