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“There’s just somethin’ about ya, Omi. I can’t get enough of our little confrontations.” Atsumu sounds so earnest, completely at odds with the fact he’s wanted for murder, extortion, espionage, trafficking, and a myriad of other crimes across most of the world.
Mostly the murder, though. Comes with the territory of "professional hitman."
Kiyoomi cocks his gun and takes a few cautious steps further into this wing of the museum. “Then come here and face me head on.”
Atsumu’s chuckle echoes through the room, too dispersed for Kiyoomi to be able to pinpoint where it’s coming from. “Now, I may think you’re hot, but I ain’t an idiot.”
“That’s debatable.” It's hard to see much in the dim lighting. Silhouettes loom above him, statues and pillars holding art more valuable than Kiyoomi’s own life. He doesn’t know what Atsumu has done to make the guards all disappear and the security system switch off at such a well-known museum, but it was likely bloody.
“Aw, does my own little pet agent think it’s too easy to catch me?” Movement flashes in the corner of his eye. Kiyoomi whirls around, but it’s gone by the time he enters the new room. “You’ve managed it a grand total of never.”
“Once,” Kiyoomi corrects sharply.
It’s a mistake to bring it up.
“A real memorable once, Omi. Someone got caught that day, and I don’t think it was me,” Atsumu singsongs, voice lilting and mocking, ratcheting Kiyoomi’s anger even higher.
Because even if Kiyoomi had managed to wrap a handcuff around Atsumu’s wrist that one time, Atsumu had wrapped his hands around Kiyoomi’s cock in turn, driving him madder and higher than Kiyoomi had ever known he could feel. It was disgusting and dirty, worse so because Atsumu escaped right after.
The memory of it plays on repeat in Kiyoomi's head, and he has not known a single day of peace since.
Kiyoomi fires off a shot at random, the crack of it piercing, hitting some mark based on the crumbling of stone in the distance. “Show your goddamn face, Miya.”
“Now, now, Omi Omi,” Atsumu calls out with delight. “Behave. You’re not s’posed to touch the art.”
“I’m tired of doing what I’m told.”
“That’s why you’re here now, ain’t it? Even though Ushiwaka yanked the case from ya.”
Kiyoomi spins slowly, ear cocked for any extra hint now that the voice is the closest it’s been so far. “I never should have been reassigned. It was just political maneuvering bullshit."
“Yer right. So ya lied and bribed and stole and flat-out tortured your way until you could find a path straight ta me.”
Kiyoomi stills, the tip of his gun lowering imperceptibly in shock. Atsumu had no right to say shit when Kiyoomi’s worst was still leagues better than Atsumu’s best. Still, he doesn’t appreciate being called out, guilt churning in his stomach.
“Look into the abyss…” Kiyoomi trails off, waiting.
“And it looks back into ya?” comes Atsumu’s sardonic response, right at his shoulder.
Kiyoomi shoots at Atsumu. He dodges, kicking his legs out to trip Kiyoomi. The gun flies out of his hand as he falls and skitters away far out of reach. Kiyoomi grabs at Atsumu, dragging him down, too.
They grapple along the floor, back and forth with tooth and nail and fist. Kiyoomi manages only a few punches before Atsumu works his way on top of Kiyoomi’s body. He pins Kiyoomi down at his thighs and clutches his forearms with a bruising grip. Kiyoomi wriggles, trying to find leverage to flip free, but realizes all too quickly it’s better to save his energy.
This close, Atsumu is as handsome as ever. His hair is bright even in the dark, the dirty blond gleaming from the ambient moonlight streaming in from tall, far-off windows. He’s heavy, lean-muscled above Kiyoomi, and looks positively feral with his teeth bared in satisfaction and blood running down his forehead and at the corner of his busted lip.
“You callin’ me your abyss? ‘Cause I’m flattered. To be the reason Interpol’s brightest and shiniest rookie sunk so low…” Atsumu rolls their hips together. To Kiyoomi’s shame, despite everything he told himself he wouldn’t feel the next time they meet, he starts to harden beneath Atsumu. “Delicious, Omi.”
“Get off of me.” It’s too hot, even on the cold tile floor. Miya on top of him, the blood pumping through his body, the embarrassment at getting caught again and like this— just like Ushijima had warned him would happen if he kept barreling down this path.
“You were never meant to follow the restrictions of society, Omi.” His nails cut into Kiyoomi’s skin, sharp as his tongue. “You ain’t some meek and vapid tool like they’re trying to force ya into.”
“And you can claim freedom for yourself?” Kiyoomi asks, fully aware Atsumu gets his own orders from some shadowy figure whose name Interpol has yet to even find out.
“Most of us work for someone, in the end. But at least I’m havin’ fun with it. And my future is wide open. From what I’ve heard around the block, your star seems ta be fading. You’re too damned smart for them.”
The worst part is that Atsumu’s not wrong. Kiyoomi is all for order, for integrity and excellence, but there was something so wrong about the bloated, dead weight that governed Interpol. He graduated top of his class, and in doing so, painted a political target on his back that chained him down from doing any real work until he backed the right people. The restrictions chafe.
And then he was given Atsumu’s file—a test designed to make him fail, the department’s ultimate boogeyman assassin.
But he rattled Atsumu up more than any before him, obsessed with winning just to spite his superiors. He was the closest they’d ever gotten to nailing Atsumu until someone somewhere worried Kiyoomi would be too successful, and they swept the file out from under him.
More and more, lately, he wonders if all his time is wasted with Interpol, when his ambition seems to eclipse their woeful scope.
“You’re too good for them and they know it,” Atsumu says with a matter-of-fact coolness. He releases Kiyoomi’s wrists, dragging his nails down the sensitive veins of his forearms. Kiyoomi’s breath hitches as Atsumu twists his thumb into the soft divot of his elbow. “If someone’s gonna drag you down regardless, Omi, at least let it be me.” Again, he rolls their lengths together, both of them groaning at the friction.
Kiyoomi doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs Atsumu by the back of his neck and slams their mouths together.
The kiss is sloppy and harsh, too much teeth and bad angles. But it’s finally a direction for all Kiyoomi’s pent-up anger to go, releasing the tension and frustration that’s been building within Kiyoomi since Atsumu’s file first passed across his desk. He scratches at Atsumu’s skin, yanks at his hair, and tries to devour him and break him at the same time.
Atsumu bites back, the blood from his lips metallic to the taste. He laces one hand into Kiyoomi’s palm, rough and crisscrossed with scars, as the other tugs Kiyoomi’s shirt free. Kiyoomi gasps when he reaches the bare dip of his waist.
At that, Atsumu finally gains control of the kiss, easing it into a rhythm, one no less urgent or forceful than Kiyoomi’s frantic attempt.
The hand at his waist drags up, baring his stomach and chest to the cold air. As Atsumu passes each rib, he uses a single finger to trace a light path down them one by one before moving to the next until he reaches Kiyoomi’s nipple. He rolls it between his fingers, tugging at it and drawing moans outright from Kiyoomi.
Kiyoomi tears at Atsumu’s collar, ripping the buttons of his shirt clean off with a single hand.
“Hot, Omi,” Atsumu says, pulling back to survey the damage to his shirt.
Kiyoomi finally seizes his opportunity to get the upper hand, literally. He dumps Atsumu to the side and pins him facedown, spreading Atsumu’s legs wide to keep him from knocking Kiyoomi off. He twists one of Atsumu’s arms to the small of his back and wrenches Atsumu’s head back with a fistful of hair.
“Does this one count as a catch for me, Miya?” Kiyoomi snarls into his ear.
Atsumu laughs, low and delighted. “You can call it anything you want, babe.”
Kiyoomi’s rage burns incandescent. He yanks harder, turning Atsumu’s face to the side. Sickly bruises are starting to show from the fight earlier, purpling and nasty even in the inconsistent moonlight. He runs a thumb along the edge of one of them.
“All this fancy art around us, and all you can stare at is me,” Atsumu drawls.
Kiyoomi slams his head into the ground and spits on his cheek.
Atsumu gasps with exhilaration. “Fuck, Omi!” He tries to buck up, but Kiyoomi holds him down with textbook precision. All he manages to do is grind down into the tile and up again against Kiyoomi’s cock.
“The first time I saw ya from afar,” Atsumu starts, breath shaky and muffled by the floor, “you were stalkin’ up and down that marina in Okinawa like you owned the damn world. I knew then I could ruin you.”
Kiyoomi’s words are strangled in his throat and his body frozen above Atsumu, caught in helplessness.
“But they tried to ruin you first, tried to chain you into becoming their stupid little yes man,” he spits out with as much vitriol as he can muster. “Interpol doesn’t deserve your smarts, your fight, the dogged way you hunt down everything. You claw your way to victory just to spite everyone around you, and you’re beautiful for it.”
Kiyoomi wants to know what Atsumu knows about Interpol. About his own organization. About why he seems to know Kiyoomi so well. What he did to drive Kiyoomi this mad and this low. He wants to extract every piece of strategy and intel from Atsumu’s brain, wants to wring it all out of him until they’re both bone dry and unfeeling and Kiyoomi doesn’t have to bear any of this nonsense any longer.
Instead, Kiyoomi hisses, “Shut up, Miya.” He splays his hand against Atsumu’s face, pressing into the bruise with vicious satisfaction. The spit and blood mix under his grip, slippery and warm.
“You’re so much better than them, Omi. Why do you let them treat you like this? You’re brilliant, and they will break you down into nothing. Let me break you down until you’re free.”
“I told you to shut up,” Kiyoomi says, working his hand to the front of Atsumu’s slacks to free the button and zip and yank the pants and underwear down just enough to bare his ass.
“Give me your damn hand, Omi. I want it around my dick.”
“No,” he says bluntly and then spits twice on Atsumu’s ass. It slides down the crack and to the side. Kiyoomi pulls out his cock and rubs it into the spit, between his cheeks.
“I have lube in my thigh holster,” Atsumu says.
His grip on Atsumu’s wrist spasms, and he can imagine snapping the thin bones involuntarily. Just the thought feels gratifying.
“Did you think you would be so successful in our meeting tonight?” Kiyoomi asks.
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
Kiyoomi hauls him up to his knees and yanks his pants down further to access the lube, still holding Atsumu’s arm in a way that will break his thumb if he so much as breathes wrong. He uncaps it with a single hand and drizzles slathers it across his dick as precome already trickles down its length.
Atsumu doesn’t even have to be told to keep his legs together as Kiyoomi slides his dick between his thighs. The pressure is incredible, warm and slick.
“Omi,” Atsumu cries out as Kiyoomi brushes the base of his dick. He pulls back and slams in, faster this time. When Atsumu cries his name out again, he shoves his fingers into Atsumu’s mouth, muffling his cries.
“Was this what you imagined when you came here tonight? Will this satisfy you?” The sound of their skin slapping rings through the room, so out of place in the sterile white walls stark in moonlight and shadow.
When Kiyoomi feels his orgasm start to build, he shoves Atsumu down and manhandles him into his back.
Atsumu’s shirt is still ripped down the front, pants at his knees and the apex of his trembling thighs shiny with lube and sweat. His cock bobs upright, thick and promising.
A cloud passes, revealing the moonlight in full. It filters through the window and onto Atsumu, the red of blood and purples of bruises, pink scratched down his pecs. His eyes, the deepest of browns and his hair the gamut of gold.
Atsumu is gorgeous. It makes Kiyoomi furious.
Before Atsumu gathers his wits to open his mouth, Kiyoomi bears down on his throat, pushing hard just below his Adam’s apple.
“You did this to me last time,” Kiyoomi hisses as he fists his cock over Atsumu’s chest. “And after tonight, this will never happen again.”
Kiyoomi cannot stand this man, the only person who's ever told him honest truth, and the one person he can never trust for it.
Below him, he can feel Atsumu jerking himself off, awkwardly making the best of it with his arms pinned to his sides by Kiyoomi’s calves. His other hand digs into Kiyoomi’s hip as if it’s the only thing anchoring him to life.
Kiyoomi loses sense as his spills over Atsumu. Come lands all over Atsumu’s chest and face, into his open mouth and across his eyelids. Below him, Atsumu follows after. His body shakes in full, and his come hits the back of Kiyoomi’s shirt and the sliver of uncovered skin just above his waistband.
The stripes of white suit Atsumu, Kiyoomi thinks. Eyes closed in near gentle repose, chest heaving as he regains the air Kiyoomi had kept from him, it is the most peaceful someone like Atsumu could ever likely look.
Kiyoomi swallows hard. He gets up, tucks himself back into his pants, and scans the gallery floor for his gun.
Just when Atsumu recovers, Kiyoomi finds his gun, lying in the rubble of the statue he'd shot earlier. He holds it up to moonlight, cold and dirty, and feels nothing.
“What, that’s it?” Atsumu asks.
Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, taking stock of his heavy limbs and the sweat drying tacky across his skin. He is so tired.
“Hey! You gonna finish what you came here to do?” Atsumu spreads his arms wide, offering a malevolent, toothy grin from where he sits cross-legged on the floor, come still smeared across his face and body. “I ain’t in a position ta stop ya right now. Do it. Kill me, finally. Take home your big win back ta HQ and show off my severed head to yer handlers.”
Kiyoomi tucks the gun into the front of his pants, wincing as he feels some of the come on his back. He spins on his heel and heads for the exit, still empty, empty, empty.
“Think about what I said, Omi,” Atsumu yells, voice hoarse. "I'll be waitin' for ya."
Kiyoomi runs. He doesn’t turn back.