Work Text:
When Atsumu comes home one day reeking of blood, all Kiyoomi does is turn his nose up in disgust and pretend to stalk off. He can see Atsumu’s face reflected in the mirror, crestfallen and confused as he scrambles to figure out what he’d done to piss his omega off.
Well, Kiyoomi doubts he’d be presumptuous enough to think of Kiyoomi as his omega, not with the claim mark etched deep into his neck and the silver ring glinting on his finger. Kiyoomi is a taken man, and just because Atsumu has never seen his husband or smelled the heady scent mixed with Kiyoomi’s own doesn't mean he's totally oblivious
Atsumu’s nose is keen for a beta. He’s smart enough to scrub the scent of a supposed stranger off his skin. He forgets, however, that the stench of blood always lingers, invading the senses of those blessed.
Atsumu is truly panicking now, the languid posture and self-satisfied air dissipating to reveal the simmering guilt and self-doubt beneath. Kiyoomi doesn’t need a scent to tell, not with Atsumu wearing his expressions like an open book around him.
Suppressing a satisfied smirk, Kiyoomi leaves Atsumu alone for real, knowing he’ll be stewing in the pool of negativity he incited. It surely must feel like whiplash, with how Wakatoshi boosted his self-confidence with his sweet, desperate begging and corresponding actions.
He probably begged Atsumu to kick him around, to take a knife to his skin and press it in just enough to draw blood. Wakatoshi was always so adorably conflicted too, pulling away from the pain and pleading for the agony to stop, stop, please, Master, I can’t take it anymore, it hurts. Yet if Kiyoomi lets up, Wakatoshi looks at him with glazed, confused eyes. Why’d you stop? Master, I can take more.
Sometimes, Kiyoomi likes to make him beg for it. Wakatoshi does, of course he does: he’s Kiyoomi’s obedient slave and more than that, his competent, sexy, husband.
His usually-stoic partner’s desperate pleading is music, liquified candy seeping into his ears. Please step on my cock, Master. Please use me as a dildo, Master. Please punish your useless slut, Master.
His husband is terrible for his ego and sanity, but Kiyoomi relishes in it, in every microsecond of his alpha kneeling at his feet. Doesn’t Wakatoshi sound the sweetest when he cries and begs?
Well, the second sweetest, Kiyoomi mentally corrects. Wakatoshi sounds the sweetest when he wraps his toned arms around Kiyoomi in the bathroom, sleep-addled voice slurring out a “good morning, Kiyoomi”, or when his eyes soften as Kiyoomi slips into their apartment after a long night, a concerned “have you eaten? I made something for you” accompanied with a chaste kiss on the lips.
Or perhaps he sounded the sweetest at their wedding, when he gazed deep into Kiyoomi’s eyes and whispered that he’ll be with Kiyoomi no matter what, that Kiyoomi was his love and his partner. When death did them apart, they’d find their way back to each other again in the next. That, and a thousand more promises — ludicrous and empty if it were from anyone else, but heart-wrenchingly sincere when it’s from Wakatoshi.
Kiyoomi has no doubt Wakatoshi will follow through. They’ve made their relationship work, as contentious as it had been from the start. Bound by duty and blood respectively, Wakatoshi and him had put in the effort needed over the years to be able to maintain what they have.
They’ve earned their reputation in the field: Wakatoshi, a terminator with his inhuman physique, skills and stamina; Kiyoomi, a reaper with his silent but deadly presence leaving nothing but bodies in his wake.
Wakatoshi has racked up a following, men who would fall on their sword if Wakatoshi wanted, would be body shields for him without a moment’s hesitation. Enough of them that Wakatoshi is free to do as he pleases, even if what he wanted was to come home every once in a while to the supposed-enemy, to wake up by his side and press kisses onto his forehead. And also to be thoroughly dominated in bed by said-enemy. Kiyoomi is one lucky man.
Kiyoomi doesn’t have quite the same charisma that Wakatoshi has. He knows it more than anyone else, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want it. As it is, people — enemies and allies alike — scutter out of the way when they spot him for a distance, bowing deeply in respect and fear as he walks past them, pretending that they don’t exist.
He is feared enough that even fools don’t dare to approach, and he is loved enough that the smart ones don’t bother to scheme. His parents let him do what he wants, so how could anyone dare to touch the Sakusa’s youngest, an omega no less?
He’s stopped having a bodyguard long ago, no one competent enough to make the invasion of privacy worth it. He was sure he’d never need one ever again too, until he saw the Miya Atsumu, attractive and dangerous in more than mere appearances.
It makes Kiyoomi want to break him, taint that confidence with insecurity that’s reserved for him, poison his mind until he’s addicted to Kiyoomi’s assurance, until his mood swings wildly at the slightest change in Kiyoomi’s posture.
Wakatoshi, as always, is consulted before Kiyoomi makes a move, surprisingly open and intrigued by luring a third into their relationship. His lover has never been one for manipulative smiles and hidden knives, but that’s alright. It’s not necessary. His genuine trust and vulnerability would pull Atsumu in better than any false pretence can.
Stage one of his plan is complete, Kiyoomi decides. How would Atsumu react to stage two?