Archive of Our Own

It had been smart, Suga guesses, to use the framed photograph of him and Oikawa from vacation last summer to peek around the corner — tilting the glass to reflect the stairs leading up to their bedroom without actually sticking his neck around the wall.

Smart because he has exactly 0.2 seconds after spotting dark eyes and a mouth set in a flat, determined line in the reflection before a shotgun goes off and a hole the size of his head is blown through the drywall inches behind him.

Suga ducks and the frame smashes to the ground and shatters. Bits of plaster and plywood go flying through the air, raining down onto his body.

Fucking hell -, he starts to think but the click of Oikawa reloading echoes through the thick air and then there’s another shot and then a third and all Suga can do is crouch behind the wall separating them and keep his head low for fear of having it blasted from his shoulders.

After the third shot, dust settles along the back of Suga’s neck. He clenches his teeth together, tightening the grip he has on his own gun (smaller than a shotgun but it’s really too late for regrets), and stays quiet.

The shotgun cocks again, another loud click in the suffocating silence.

Until Oikawa’s voice echoes right behind it.

"You still alive, baby?"

Suga can’t help but smirk. Oikawa’s voice wraps around the words like velvet. He practically purrs them, the sickening saccharine dripping from his tone only emphasizing the needles underneath all of that softness.

God, Suga’s going to kill him, that cocky son of a bitch.

But to do that he needs to strategize and plan. An idea flickers to life in his head — a lightbulb in the dark.

Suga fake-groans, making it as believable as he can manage. He taps his gun against the hardwood floor beneath him, making it sound like he’s dropped it — like he’s writhing in pain on the ground, fatally injured… all the while knowing that Oikawa is probably lowering his shotgun right now, at this moment, at the noise.

And then Suga makes his move, striking fast.

Whipping himself up from his position on the kitchen floor, Suga aims through one of those holes Oikawa just shot in the wall and fires off as many rounds as he can click out in about three seconds, aiming for the shadowy figure hunched at the top of the stairs.

He hears Oikawa grunt and then move quickly, tumbling down the steps before there’s the thump of his body catching up against a solid part of the wall, a sharp inhale of breath… and then Suga barely has time to move before that damn shotgun goes off again, firing loud and way too close for comfort.

Suga reloads, his mind turning and spinning with all of the years of experience he’s had. In the blink of an eye he calculates where Oikawa is now and where he’s going to fire next and Suga runs quickly back down the hall he had come through as two more shots go off in measured intervals behind him, missing his head by inches.

I’ll show you baby, sweetheart, he thinks and as soon as he rounds the corner into the living room, there he is, at the foot of the stairs.

Oikawa sees him at the same moment and his eyes widen just a fraction before Suga has his gun up and fires again — one shot, two shot, three shots. The kickback echoes familiarly up through his arm, one eye closed to aim.

He misses.

Oikawa moves in a blur, sliding across the floor on his knees to duck behind a pillar in their foyer and then… and then there’s silence.

Suga steps backwards, avoiding creaky floorboards and getting out of the open. His heart is pounding in his chest but there’s some kind of dark thrill right alongside it.

The shadows in their house stretch and yawn open, no lights on. And only the beat of his own pulse echoes in Suga’s ears.

A dark thrill. That’s what it feels like in the pit of his stomach, burning upwards with a sick sort of excitement and rage.

Who would’ve guessed that his own husband — his own proud, beautiful husband — is actually an assassin, just like him? Suga smirks again, his grin growing wider and wider until he feels like laughing.

He’s hysterical. He realizes. But he thinks he has a pretty good reason to lose his head.

The man he’s trusted and loved for the past five years — the man he had once watched nurse a baby bird back to life right there in their gunshot-riddled kitchen — is a cold-blooded killer. Just like Suga.

What had been the odds?

Apparently they had been pretty damn good odds.

Oikawa and him should’ve never even happened. They belong to competing companies — they’re assassins on separate sides and somehow they had met and fallen in love and gotten married without realizing.

Suga had fallen in love with the enemy… and now the enemy is trying to blow his head off.

Something in the universe is fucking with him, Suga knows it.

He ducks behind a couch, ears straining for any sounds of movement or breathing. Nothing. Nothing but the rapid, frantic suck of his pulse in his veins and the wind blowing against the windows.

No shadows move. No footsteps dart across the slick floors.

Suga stretches his shoulders, rolling out a few kinks. He cocks his gun as quietly as he can. Where are you, Ru? some little voice in the back of his head asks. Where’d you go love?

Deciding that staying right here probably isn’t the wisest move — not with the right side of his body open to the hall from before — Suga creeps out from behind the couch and then slinks up against the hallway wall, flattening himself against it.

There’s no one in the kitchen, at least not as far as he can tell. No flashes of dark hair or the barrel of a shotgun. So Suga edges forward, inch by inch, holding his breath. He keeps his gun held up to his chest, both hands wrapped around the grip.

Wherever he is, Oikawa is doing a great job of keeping quiet. He’s not a bad shot either, judging from the new holes in their home’s walls.

Tough luck for him, neither is Suga.

Suddenly, the edge of the large, wooden cupboard they keep all of their porcelain in looms up out of the dark. Suga slows even further. If he walks too quickly here, he’s sure to make all of that china rattle. It’ll be a dead giveaway.

God, Suga wishes his tie wasn’t tied so tight around his throat. It’s strangling him. With two fingers he reaches up to loosen it, shaking it out into a looser noose around his neck, still moving forward in his shiny, leather work shoes.

And then he bumps the vase. That damned wedding gift from Oikawa’s mother, ironically. A little, expensive amphora-looking thing with a snug little lid on top.

It happens in slow motion.

Suga barely nudges the blue and white pot and it tumbles — the tiniest, most insignificant imbalance sends it tipping, tipping, tipping to -

Suga catches it.

He’s balanced on one leg with his palm out and the pot lands in his hand and he’s breathing out a whisper of relief… when the lid comes off.

The lid drops.

Suga just has time to squeeze his eyes shut and pray to God for mercy before it hits the floor and shatters into shards — the resulting noise is akin to a bomb going off in the dead silent house.

The next thing Suga feels is plaster hitting him in the face as a shotgun shot screams through the wall right next to his head, inches from his eyes.

Oikawa’s found him again.

Cursing, Suga stumbles backwards. Oh, he’s fucked. He’s so, so fucked. Oikawa is right around the corner apparently and now he knows where he is and -

One, two, three. Bang, bang, bang.

In tandem, three more rounds are fired and somehow this feels like deja vu to Suga because now he’s running down the same damn hall to avoid the shots, skidding back into the kitchen with his heart in his mouth.

He reaches the fridge right when Oikawa rounds the corner into the kitchen and, "Shit, that’s not a shotgun. That’s a -"

Oikawa raises the submachine gun to his shoulder and peers through the viewfinder with a cold twist to his lips and Suga just has time to yank the industrial fridge door open to shield himself before a barrage of bullets hit.

The impact has him stumbling backward, ducking down behind the island, as glass shatters and demolished food rains down on his head. The noise is deafening.

Oikawa’s fury doesn’t let up. The fridge is a wreck at this point, a twisted piece of shrapnel.

Suga looks around quickly, biting his tongue and keeping his body down to the ground. Jam and pieces of lettuce and spilt milk seep over the floor, oozing from the fridge contents.

Come on, Suga thinks again, searching for something. He doesn’t want to waste any more bullets firing blindly. Come on, come on, come o-

There it is. The knife drawer is right above his head when he looks up, through some sheer stroke of luck as Oikawa continues to obliterate their beautiful kitchen.

Reaching up, Suga scrabbles through the contents, fingers closing over something thick and heavy and cold.

And right after that there’s a break in the firing. Suga scrabbles for the opportunity desperately, lifting an arm above the counter and chucking whatever he’s holding hard and fast in Oikawa’s direction.

The meat cleaver — as he soon sees it is — finds its home in the doorframe right next to Oikawa’s head, quivering with the force of Suga’s throw.

Damn, Suga thinks. He’d missed again.

Oikawa glances at the knife and then sneers, eyes flashing… but it seems he’s out of bullets and the next thing Suga knows, he’s gone, slipping back behind the wall.

"Your aim’s as bad as your cooking, sweetheart," Suga calls out, gritting his teeth. The first real licks of anger are starting to burn deep down in his stomach. The shock of finding out is beginning to wear off.

Now he’s just kind of pissed that Oikawa had let loose so easily right here in the kitchen, shredding a metal fridge door to ribbons in the hopes of getting Suga.

Bastard.

"And that’s saying something," he continues, making his voice as mocking as he can while simultaneously dismantling the pipes in the oven next to him, gas leaking out in a hiss into the air. His brain is working as fast as his mouth.

Draw him in, the logical, cool part of his head is telling him. He’ll take the bait.

Somewhere in the hall, Suga can hear Oikawa furiously reloading his submachine but he focuses on his task of creating a triggered explosion.

And bingo.

The next thing Suga knows, Oikawa is back in the kitchen, firing just as viciously as the first time… only this time, a spark catches and there’s a shuddering boom as fire erupts outwards from where Suga is hunched, holding his head in his hands to shield himself from the explosion.

It makes his teeth rattle and clack against each other and he hears Oikawa cry out in surprise.

That sound is Suga’s green light.

Scrabbling to his feet he charges towards the noise and there Oikawa is, through all of the smoke and the flames — weaponless and dazed, breathing hard, his eyes burning when they lock onto Suga’s face.

Suga slams into him, his gun clattering from his hand in favor of physically barreling into Oikawa. He knocks his husband back into the wall behind him and God, he relishes that choked gasp of surprise that leaves Oikawa’s lips as he thuds into the drywall painfully. It fills Suga with joy.

Wasting no time, Suga swings a fist towards Oikawa’s face… but Oikawa ducks and then returns with his elbow to the back of Suga’s neck. It’s a swift, hard jab that has Suga seeing stars and jerking away from Oikawa’s body.

Groaning, Suga recovers — straightening up and stumbling into the living room — and he just has time to raise an arm before Oikawa slams a piece of pottery down over his head, shattering it on Suga’s forearm.

Growling, Suga knocks Oikawa into the wall again, shoving him sideways bodily and then fisting his hands into the front of Oikawa’s work shirt and yanking him forward into a shelf.

The other man cries out at the impact, dazed for a moment, and it’s the perfect opportunity for Suga to readjust his grip on him and throw him into the dining room. He watches Oikawa slide over the expensive, mahogany table and then careen off of it, knocking over a chair with his weight and crumpling to the floor after.

Suga takes a breath — shaking off the ringing in his ears — and then walks around the dining room table, breathing hard, a smug sort of victory settling into his ribs.

Oikawa is still down. He’s got his back to him but Suga can hear his ragged pants and see the slouch of Oikawa’s shoulder blades through his shirt and there’s no way he still has any wind in him. Not after that toss.

Suga grins, raising his hands up to his chest in fists like he’s boxing.

"Come on, sweetheart," he eggs. "Come to daddy."

As it turns out, that’s a huge mistake.

Oikawa whirls in one fluid motion and the ice bucket they keep in this room whams into the side of Suga’s skull with a very loud clang.

His vision goes blurry, ears ringing… and then Oikawa’s strong, lithe hands are wrapping Suga’s own tie around his neck and Oikawa slams his head forward, head-butting Suga and letting his grip go.

Suga cries out at the force, stumbling back until he slams into a glass, floor-length cabinet and then slides to the floor. His head throbs like he’s just been hit by a train. He kind of feels like throwing up.

Unfortunately, he has enough sense left to hear Oikawa’s smug as hell laugh and then a, "Who’s your daddy now? Huh, Koushi?"

And he has just enough strength left to sprint after his husband when the other takes off — headed straight for his gun still lying in the kitchen doorway.

They reach it at the same time and Suga kicks it from Oikawa’s hands before the other can aim and then tackles him to the ground.

Oh, that fucking hurts. The glass on the floor digs into his skin as Oikawa rolls him over, straddling his hips, and then takes a fist to his face.

He gets three punches in before Suga regains the upper hand, flipping them and slamming Oikawa’s back into the ground, snarling.

From there, it’s a blur of fists and kicks and rolling each other over until Suga finds himself gasping and standing weakly on shaking knees in front of Oikawa, both of their bloody fists raised in self-defense.

Suga squeezes his eyes shut just for a second, struggling against the ache throbbing through his skull. Every inch of him hurts in some way. He can’t feel anything anymore besides pain, radiating through every limb. He feels like he’s been run over by a semi.

Oikawa is blinking hard in front of him, shaking his head to clear his eyes as a trickle of blood runs down from a gash in his forehead.

For a second they just stare at each other, chests rising and falling as they suck in air. Suga can taste iron in his mouth. He can feel blood running down the back of his neck, warm and sticky. His lip is split. He’s going to be covered in bruises too, especially after that wicked head butt earlier.

There are glass shards all over him, prickling as they dig into his skin. One of them glitters from where it’s lodged above Oikawa’s eyebrow, more blood spilling down over his eye when he shifts in his position.

Suga watches the red seep down his husband’s face and then Oikawa reaches up and brushes it away and the shard tumbles to the ground.

For a moment, that’s all there is. The flash and glitter of the glass as it falls, a wink of light in the darkness. A moment suspended in time.

Until Oikawa’s eyes flick sideways and Suga follows and the two of them make a simultaneous mad dash for their guns.

They cock them at the same time, whipping around to face each other again, barrels pointed at each other’s foreheads.

Suga belatedly realizes he’s holding the submachine now. His pistol flashes in Oikawa’s iron grip in return.

Then there’s nothing but the sound of their ragged, labored breathing. Nothing but a deadlock.

Nothing but the dark end of a barrel aimed between Suga’s eyes as he aims at exactly the same spot in his husband’s head.

As he aims at that face that he knows so well.

Suddenly, all Suga can see are Oikawa’s eyes.

His husband is looking at him like he’s a stranger — Oikawa’s mouth is twisted up into a sneer, his teeth are bared. He looks feral.

But all Suga can see are his eyes. Those gorgeous brown eyes.

Then he’s seeing the rest of Oikawa’s face — his dainty, upturned nose and the fullness to his mouth. The strong line of his jaw and the thick, black lines of his eyelashes.

That face that Suga has looked at so many times — waking up, going to bed, saying goodbye, running to when they had come back to each other after time apart.

The face that he loves… that he knows he’ll love no matter what. No matter if Oikawa puts a bullet through his head right now.

Because — standing here in their dark and ruined home — Suga realizes he only ever feels safe when he’s in Oikawa’s arms. No matter what mission he’s been on, no matter where he has to go next… Oikawa is home.

The realization comes fast and all at once. After five years it hits Suga like a freight train and he’s suddenly wondering what he’s doing — what they’re doing — here.

He suddenly feels very, very tired.

Suga lowers his gun. His hands are shaking. His voice though, when he speaks, is firm.

"I can’t do it."

Immediately Oikawa’s face shifts, his snarl growing wider. Fury burns and blooms in his eyes, flowers of fire.

"Don’t," he growls. "Don’t you fucking dare, Koushi. Come on." He shakes his gun, still holding it towards Suga’s face.

"Come on," Oikawa cries again, but this time it’s more of a choked-back sob than anything else. There’s pain there, mixing in with the anger. Desperation.

Suga doesn’t move. He just drops his gun. "If you want it, it’s yours. Take the shot. Shoot me," he says quietly.

Oikawa’s face screws up more. There are tears in his eyes now. He’s gripping the gun so hard it’s shaking and his teeth are still clenched.

Suga loves him, even in this moment.

"Do it," Suga tells him, his heart a rapid fluttering of wings at the base of his throat despite the odd calm that’s washed over him. "If you have to."

There’s a beat of nothing then but their breathing. There’s nothing but Oikawa’s pretty hand wrapped around that gun, his lower lip trembling.

Until Suga sees the decision flash through his eyes.

Oikawa barely has the gun lowered an inch before Suga strides forward and knocks it from his hand… and then Oikawa’s hands are in his hair, yanking him forward violently as their mouths crash together.

Suga hisses at the push of Oikawa’s mouth against his split lip but Oikawa is unrelenting. He has his hands fisted tightly in Suga’s hair, keeping the other’s head in place, and he chases after Suga’s gasp of pain hungrily, crushing their lips back together.

Suga retaliates. He bites at his husband’s mouth, tugging Oikawa’s lower lip in between his teeth and pulling until Oikawa gives him a strangled moan.

And for one moment, Suga imagines he tastes salt on Oikawa’s mouth. He thinks he can feel a wetness on his eyelashes as they part and come back again not a second later, desperate. He thinks he feels something wet slide down his own cheek.

But whatever he thinks he feels, all Suga really recognizes in both of their actions is relief. The memory of how close they had come to destroying each other fuels the fire and Suga kisses Oikawa hungrily, breathing hard against him. The pit of his stomach twists at the feel of Oikawa like this.

Oikawa tightens his grip in Suga’s hair in response and he smells like iron and sweat and like Tooru, the man Suga’s been waking up to for the past five years. His skin is burning under the thinness of his clothes and he kisses Suga greedily, sucking on his lower lip until Suga can’t help the mewl that crawls past the tightness of his throat.

There’s suddenly a hard wall against Suga’s back. He thuds into it with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs and Oikawa - the little shit - is smiling and then panting into his mouth. His fingers slide hot and heavy down Suga’s front until he reaches the front of his pants and when he palms at Suga’s dick through his work slacks, Suga curses and jerks.

“Hmm,” Oikawa purrs, lips sliding hot and slick from Suga’s lips to mouth at his ear, “what was that, baby?"

“Shut up,” Suga grits out but it’s more moan than anything and Oikawa’s smirk only grows against his skin. His palm is hot through Suga’s pants. And Suga can do nothing but rock his hips into it, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach.

But Oikawa’s hand is suddenly gone and then so is his weight, pushing Suga against the wall. There’s no warm skin under Suga’s wandering hands.

Suga’s eyes flutter open to find Oikawa standing in front of him, flushed and pretty and smug. The blood from his forehead has dried in his hair. It sticks to his eyelashes.

He looks like shit. Suga doesn’t feel too much better.

“Come here,” Oikawa breathes. He looks at Suga with a different kind of fire this time. It lights up his chocolate brown eyes. It makes him even more beautiful in his cream-colored slacks and black button-up, no matter how much blood he’s covered in.

He looks at Suga like he’s offering him a challenge.

And Suga obliges to Oikawa’s command more than welcomingly. He takes a step forward and fists his hands in Oikawa’s shirt and kisses Oikawa with all of the force he can muster, their teeth clacking.

They stumble back with it, limbs tangling back together. Oikawa’s body is so familiar — every line and curve and angle and Suga pushes into all of it with a desperateness he had never known he possessed.

Glass crunches under their shoes as they stagger backwards, farther and farther until Oikawa finds a dining room chair that’s still standing and sinks into it. He pulls Suga with him and Suga straddles his waist easily, grinding down hard once he’s got his legs wrapped around Oikawa’s thighs.

"Shit," Oikawa pants out, mouthing sloppily at the corner of Suga’s mouth, his breath hot. So Suga does it again, rubbing down against the shape of Oikawa’s dick and groaning at the feel of it.

God, it feels good. Oikawa’s mouth is back on Suga’s and all he can do is dig his nails into Oikawa’s scalp and dig his thumbs under the other man’s chin, tilting his head up towards him. Their lips meet over and over again — hot and messy, a tangle of tongues and teeth digging down into soft skin.

Suga’s already half-hard under his pants — from adrenaline and fear and now desire. He feels like his blood is singing. His heartbeat crashes in his ears, deafening.

And Oikawa… Oikawa is different. This feels different.

It feels more real, Suga realizes dazedly in the back of his mind. It’s still them, but different.

The facade is gone. There’s no need to lie anymore. There’s no need for Suga to tell Oikawa he’s going to be late at the office because he has a target two cities over and it’ll take him until midnight to catch the train home. He doesn’t have to scrub blood from his nails and hair before walking through the front door anymore. He doesn’t have to -

"Stop thinking so much." Oikawa groans the words into Suga’s mouth, yanking him closer by his belt loops and prying his mouth open farther with his lips, sucking on his tongue. He’s just as hard, Suga feels through his slacks. The heat of him presses against Suga’s ass where it’s fitted snugly into his lap.

Suga can’t think anymore even if he’d wanted to.

In response, he fumbles with the buttons of Oikawa’s shirt, breaking away to look down when his fingers slide and slip over the first one. His chest is heaving. The air in his lungs feels like fire. He wants to touch. He wants to feel.

Oikawa’s mouth travels. He leaves open-mouthed kisses all of the way across Suga’s cheek and then runs his tongue over the shell of Suga’s ear and Suga shivers, losing his concentration for a second. Oikawa does it again and then tugs at Suga’s earlobe with his teeth, sending a new wave of heat over Suga’s skin.

"Your shirt," Suga hisses between his teeth, frustrated and burning up at the same time. "Why can’t I get these damn buttons undone?" They won’t slip loose and Oikawa is mouthing at his skin and God, it’s distracting. Suga’s entire body feels electric.

Oikawa huffs a laugh against his cheek, nuzzling into the side of his neck with his nose. His breath is hot. It puffs against Suga’s skin when he speaks.

"Always so impatient," he murmurs and then his hands are there, folding around Suga’s fingers.

Suga tightens his legs around Oikawa’s waist, keeping his balance, and Oikawa is helping him slip one button loose and then another until his shirt is hanging from his shoulders and Suga can reach out and run his palms down his chest.

Time slows a little. Suga can feel Oikawa’s eyes on his face, watching him as he maps out scars — old and new — that he now knows came from things other than childhood accidents. That silvery-white line on Oikawa’s right shoulder probably wasn’t from a bicycle tipping over like he’d said before. Now that Suga knows the truth, it looks more like the clean, sharp cut of a knife.

He runs his fingers over all of them, eyes focused on the heave of Oikawa’s chest as he traces down over his collarbones, over his chest down to his stomach, pausing at the waistline of his pants. When Suga’s fingers flutter back up to press to the side of his neck, he can feel Oikawa’s pulse below the skin, racing quick and hard.

And when he finally looks at him again, Oikawa’s eyes are dark. His pupils have swallowed up his irises, crushing them to slivers of ragged gold. His lips are kiss-pink. He’s watching Suga with a sense of wonderment on his face — and with an intensity that rumbles up Suga’s spine and shivers into his bones.

Suga sees the power in that gaze. He feels the grip Oikawa has on his waist, keeping him firmly seated in his lap. He knows what those hands can do — he’s watched those fingers on the trigger of a gun.

"What are we doing to do?" Suga can’t help speaking suddenly. His desire has been dampened by the reminder of what they both do for a living.

What are they going to do? They belong to two rival companies. They’re supposed to be enemies.

And yet here they are. They aren’t supposed to love each other. Sooner or later, someone is going to find out and then -

"Tooru, what are we going to -"

"Don’t." Oikawa’s voice cuts through the question like a knife. His hand though, when it touches Suga’s cheek, is soft.

Suga leans into Oikawa’s palm, warm and firm, and he focuses on his husband’s face. He watches Oikawa lick his lips and exhale slowly. His dark hair is mussed around his face, a lock of it falling over his forehead. There’s a fleck of blood right by his left eye, a smear farther down on his slender neck.

And his eyes are steady. They aren’t worried. They look determined and they’re only focused on Suga and nothing else. That passion that Suga had fallen in love with is there — that ambition and drive hovers just below the surface… like Oikawa would burn the world down to protect the people he loves.

"Don’t think about that right now," Oikawa says lowly. His thumb strokes Suga’s cheek, slow. "Don’t you dare, Kou."

Suga’s throat feels tight. He feels like he’s choking on something. But he swallows past it.

"Okay," he agrees… and when he tips forward, Oikawa meets him halfway.

Suga kisses Oikawa slow and deep, inhaling sharply through his nose. He presses his palms flat to Oikawa’s bare skin and he doesn’t think about anything else, like Oikawa had said. All he thinks about is the heat surrounding him, the sound of Oikawa’s breathing, the shadows encasing them in their own little world.

They’ll worry about it later.

Oikawa doesn’t bother with unbuttoning Suga’s shirt. His hands are at the hem of it, rucking the fabric up and Suga raises his arms to help him push it off over his head quickly. Cool air hits his back and makes him shiver but Oikawa’s warm hands are there a moment later, warding it off.

When they crash back together, their kisses have switched gears again, hard and fast. Suga squeezes his legs around Oikawa’s waist and lets the other pull his hips down again, rocking up against the front of his pants.

"Tooru." The name slips from Suga’s mouth so quietly he doesn’t know if his husband hears him, but Oikawa’s fingers tighten in their grip and he rolls his hips up again, grinding slow and sensual into Suga. The feel of the material of his own pants rubbing against his cock is barely enough — teasing and torturous — and Suga wants more. He needs more.

Pleasure is beginning to slip thick and heady through his head. Their kisses don’t slow, not even when they’re both panting against each other and Suga feels half-drunk off of it. Fingers scrabble against buttons and zippers until Suga is standing up, kicking off his own pants and then helping Oikawa tug off his, their shoes in a pile somewhere in the vicinity.

He crawls back into Oikawa’s lap, the chair groaning a little under their combined weight, and has a hand at his husband’s throat, feeling the blood pump and skip under his thin skin. He wants to feel the life pulsing through him. He wants to remind himself that Oikawa is still here despite everything, with him.

And Oikawa stares up at him, challenging him again with the tilt of his chin — with the gleam in those dark eyes.

They’re both trained assassins. They’re fighters. Suga feels Oikawa’s muscles flex beneath him in new ways. He can see it in Oikawa’s eyes too, the way he looks at Suga and pushes farther up into his palm, throat working beneath Suga’s fingers. He sees the way he regards him now, with a new layer of respect in his bright eyes.

"I love you," Suga breathes. He loosens his hold on Oikawa’s throat and tips his chin up farther with his fingers and watches Oikawa’s eyes darken to a deeper black — pupils blown wide — when Suga rolls his hips again, down into the thin fabric of Oikawa’s boxers.

The sensation of Oikawa’s hardness against his own has him sucking in a breath and biting his lower lip. The weight of Oikawa’s eyes on his facial expression, watching him, leaves the pit of Suga’s stomach heavy and thick with arousal.

He wants so much. He wants to much he’s dying with it and every nerve ending feels like a live wire.

"I love you too." The words fall from Oikawa’s lips reverently. His eyes never waver from Suga’s face even while his hands move, grabbing Suga’s hips through his underwear and hitching him farther up into his lap.

The movement rubs them together again and Suga’s breath catches in his throat. He’s aching. His skin is too hot. Oikawa’s eyes are like weights, dragging him under and drowning him in a fog.

All he feels is pleasure and love and relief and desperateness. He doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to last either. The leftover adrenaline in his veins bleeds and mixes with his desire and Suga is trembling, he realizes. His fingers are trembling as much as Oikawa’s when he laces one of their hands together between them.

Suga kisses at the simple gold band on Oikawa’s ring finger. He feels the cold metal beneath his lips and then the warmth of Oikawa’s skin as his lips move up his husband’s hand to his wrist, then to his arm.

"Koushi," Oikawa breathes and Suga knows what he means. He knows what he wants.

I love you, he thinks — or maybe he says it out loud, he’s not really sure.

All he feels though is the flex of Oikawa’s thighs beneath him and the wet, hot heat of his mouth when he kisses him and the slick slide of his tongue as Oikawa catches him open-mouthed.

Their teeth click together again but Suga barely registers the pain anymore. His whole body is attuned to Oikawa and nothing more. They move together like they’re synchronized.

And when Oikawa shifts to slide a thigh between his legs, the friction of Suga’s damp boxers rubbing against his cock is agonizing. He pants into Oikawa’s mouth and grinds down against his thigh and Oikawa keeps him there, lets Suga roll his hips down again and again against him.

Oikawa sucks on his bottom lip hard a few moments later — his fingertips digging into the soft flesh at Suga’s hips hard enough to leave bruises behind — and Suga whines and gasps and ruts against his leg.

God, he can’t think straight. Everything feels like it’s blurring around him. The heat in the house is building and thickening and Suga is choking on it as his pleasure builds and builds, coiling low.

"That’s it. That’s it, Kou." Oikawa’s voice in Suga’s ear is low and dark and Suga’s breath whimpers up his throat. Heat fills his vision. He buries his face into the side of Oikawa’s neck and mouths at the soft skin there blindly, sucking at a spot that has Oikawa’s fingers twitching against him, his hips jerking up to grind against Suga’s leg now slotted between his. The hitch in Oikawa’s breath, the soft moan, is music to his ears. It leaves Suga shivering and then digging his teeth into the same spot, biting down until Oikawa writhes under him, cursing.

Suga’s not sure if the blood he can taste on his tongue had already been dried along Oikawa’s skin or if his teeth have done that but he laves over it with his tongue regardless, soothing the spot and tasting salt. More of those pretty noises drop from Oikawa’s lips above Suga’s head.

And Suga wants to take their underwear off — he wants to feel skin on skin — but the idea of stopping is too much.

All he can do is continue to rub himself against Oikawa’s leg, whimpering at the flex of Oikawa’s thigh against his aching cock. All he can do is hold on tight to the back of the chair — knuckles turning white — and grind against his husband who’s looking at him again with eyes as dark as the shadows dripping through their ruined house.

Oikawa is biting his lower lip hard enough that Suga can see fresh blood beading at the indents around his teeth but even when a drop slides halfway down his chin, Oikawa doesn’t remove his grip on Suga’s hips. He watches with blown pupils, watching Suga wreck himself on his leg, and it only tightens the coil in Suga’s stomach.

He’s close, so close, and he can’t think and his heart is crashing in his ears and God, he’s so hot and Oikawa is watching with such undisguised pleasure, his palms warm and firm and anchoring Suga down and -

When Oikawa rolls his hips again — catching his breath between his teeth, eyes darkening even further, turning black — and Suga feels the hard heat of his cock against his leg, he can’t take it anymore.

All of the pressure builds in his stomach. The wetness of his boxers sticks to his skin and Oikawa’s skin is so hot against him and Suga grinds his hips down once more, twice, panting, and then he’s crashing into his release.

It washes over him like a wave crushing him below the water. His ears are ringing and all he can do is wrap his arms around Oikawa’s neck and bury his face back into the crook of his neck and gasp wetly against his damp skin, shuddering with the pleasure that courses through him.

Oikawa catches him, folding Suga’s pliant body into himself. Dimly, Suga is aware of kisses being dropped whether Oikawa’s lips can reach — but it’s not until the noise in his ears dies down a little that he realizes Oikawa is still rock-hard against him.

And when he comes back, eyelashes fluttering, he immediately reaches for the front of Oikawa’s boxers. He wants to make him feel good. He wants to show Oikawa how much he loves him. He needs to.

One of Oikawa’s hands is already there — squeezed in between them to dip down into his underwear to touch himself — but Suga pulls it away, kissing sloppily down the line of Oikawa’s neck as he takes its place and wraps his fingers around Oikawa’s length.

"Let me," he breathes out against his husband. "Let me take care of you."

Oikawa groans deep in his throat, breathing hard, and it’s so easy for Suga to lean back in his lap and pull his dick out of his boxers and then slide off of his thigh to kneel on the debris-strewn ground between his legs.

"Kou, wait -," Oikawa starts, eyes fluttering open when he realizes Suga’s not on top of him anymore, concern flashing over his face.

But Suga doesn’t mind the stinging pain against his skin from the broken glass and plaster decorating the floor. He doesn’t listen.

He just leans forward and sucks just the tip of Oikawa’s dick between his lips, going slow. Oikawa’s words die on his lips, his head falling back to knock against the chair, eyes squeezing shut.

"Fuck," Suga hears him breathe into the dust-filled air and he pulls off, lets his tongue flick out to lick at Oikawa’s slit. A few more licks and Oikawa has his hands wound tightly  into Suga’s hair, pulling.

"I love you, Tooru," Suga breathes against him, precum smearing against his cheek when he rests his face against the length of him. He keeps a hand wrapped firmly around the base and when Oikawa looks back down, eyes glazed over already, Suga peers up at him from under lowered eyelashes, watching just the pressure of his gaze turn those chocolate-brown eyes hazy.

"I love you to-," Oikawa starts but Suga tightens his grip and slides his hand up Oikawa’s cock, rubbing his thumb over the head. It’s slick and wet and Oikawa is so hot under his hand. Suga can feel himself hardening again, here on his knees, Oikawa’s cock flushed and pretty and curved in front of him.

Oikawa moans again and grits his teeth. He tightens his fingers in Suga’s hair and Suga obliges happily, pulling him back into his mouth and sucking him deeper. He hollows his cheeks, lets his tongue rest fully on the underside of Oikawa’s dick, and bobs his head.

It’s slow and sloppy. Suga makes sure to take his time, listening to Oikawa pant above him and feeling him spread his legs farther. Suga rests his elbows on his knees and twists at Oikawa’s base with his hand, sucking and moving his head up and down with long, languid motions.

He keeps it up until Oikawa is whimpering and then Suga changes direction.

Giving one more long, slow suck, Suga pulls off and wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand. Salt and precum linger heavy on his tongue and God, Oikawa looks close. He’s biting his lip again and it’s bleeding and Suga’s own mouth stings but he leans back in anyway and noses against Oikawa’s dick before licking a long stripe from bottom to top.

The fingers twined through his hair twitch and then tug and Suga moans quietly at the feeling that sends through him, his cock twitching in his underwear. He does it again, licking at Oikawa’s cock and listening to the hitched whines it gets.

"Koushi, please, God, I -," Oikawa groans, hips jerking towards Suga’s face.

Suga twists his wrist and takes Oikawa in at the same time again, but just a bit, sucking at the tip and running his tongue over his head. Oikawa’s trying not to roll his hips forward — Suga can tell by the steely grip the other has on his head — but when he swallows him down more, his husband can’t help but push into the wet hot heat of his mouth.

Suga takes him easily, opening his mouth wider and letting Oikawa’s dick press against the inside of his cheek. Spit and precum pool at the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, but Suga can tell how close Oikawa is by the face he’s making when he glances up at him, so he increases the pressure.

God, it feels good. Suga hums against him and Oikawa rolls his hips again — thrusting deeper into Suga’s mouth so that Suga has to push down on Oikawa’s hips, keeping him still as he fits more of him in, flattening his tongue against him and tightening his lips as much as he can.

Fingers push his bangs back from his face and Suga’s eyes flicker up to find Oikawa watching him again, his eyes completely fogged over. His pretty mouth is parted slightly. His chest heaves up and down with his breaths.

A deep warmth fills Suga’s chest at the expression on Oikawa’s face. It spreads through to every inch of him. His blood is racing, pooling down lower, but he focuses on nothing but sucking Oikawa off and making those pretty eyes go even more blurry.

A few moments later and Oikawa’s nails are digging into Suga’s scalp with an intensity that tells Suga the other man’s not going to last another thirty seconds.

He takes Oikawa all of the way in then, pushing past his gag reflex, and he lets go of Oikawa’s hips. The other man lets out a strangled sob and Suga focuses on nothing but that, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He lets Oikawa fuck into his mouth — feels him getting closer and closer until Oikawa is trying to pull back, cursing under his breath and whimpering something unintelligible.

Suga keeps him there though, lets Oikawa reach his release with a muffled cry as he shoots hot and thick down the back of Suga’s throat. And Suga sucks him dry until Oikawa’s stopped trembling against him, his dick limp when Suga finally pulls off and licks his lips, jaw aching.

There are hands then, gripping him under the arms and heaving him up, and then Oikawa’s mouth is suddenly crushed against his, hot and insistent and messy. His knee is back between Suga’s legs and he grinds it up into Suga’s crotch and Suga moans brokenly into his husband’s mouth, oversensitive.

"Come on, baby," Oikawa breathes. Suga’s head is spinning. He’s aching but it’s different from the pain and he can feel the edge of his second orgasm approaching embarrassingly fast but it doesn’t matter because it only takes him a few more seconds of rutting down onto Oikawa’s leg again for it to reach him.

Oikawa swallows his cry with his lips and the pads of his thumbs dig into Suga’s jaw, prying his mouth open to kiss him deeper.

"I love you," Oikawa is murmuring in between frantic kisses, Suga realizes after his head clears a bit. Oikawa pulls him back fully into his lap as they tangle back together and Suga can only let himself get lost in it all and feel, kissing back and pouring all of his emotions into it as best he can with his shaking limbs.

They’ll figure it out. In that moment, Suga knows they will. They have each other and that’s all that matters. They’ll figure the rest of it out together.

Eventually they slow. Hard turns to soft. Oikawa’s fingers are butterfly-wing touches along his bare skin and their kisses are long and languid and gentle, words passing low and soft between them.

Suga is suddenly exhausted. Every inch of him aches. There’s a thin layer of plaster dust and sweat drying over his skin and he’s aware of every cut and every bruise littering his body.

He kisses his husband one more time, lingering there, and then sags into Oikawa’s body, nuzzling down into his bare chest and breathing slow and heavy against his warm skin. Oikawa’s fingers stroke through his hair.

Suga stops staring at the bullet holes in the walls and the shattered china and he lets his eyes flutter closed, nestled into the curve of Oikawa’s lap. He wants to sleep. He wants to sleep for now and worry about cleaning up later.

"Koushi." Oikawa’s voice is just as tired but he sounds happy. He sounds content and Suga smiles and hums in answer.

"We should probably -," Oikawa starts, fingers counting out the knobs of Suga’s spine — up and down and back up.

And then the doorbell rings.

Suga is up and off of Oikawa in a heartbeat, swinging around towards the noise. Oikawa is just as fast, standing right next to him a moment later, a gun somehow already in his hand.

"Who -," Oikawa starts but Suga is dipping down to grab his rumpled shirt off of the ground and tug it back on over his head.

"Wait," he cautions, putting out a hand to lower the barrel of Oikawa’s gun. "Let me check first. It could be one of the neighbors or maybe someone called the police because of the noise."

Oikawa frowns, eyebrows furrowing, but then he nods. "Okay. But if it’s not, I’m not hesitating. I’ll be right behind you."

Suga bites his lower lip and then reaches up to pull Oikawa down, kissing him quickly. "Okay," he says, smiling weakly when Oikawa brushes his cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Please, God, Suga prays silently. Please don’t let it be them.

A beat passes and then Suga lets go and steadies his breathing. He runs his fingers through his hair as best he can and then tiptoes over glass and debris, making his way through the dark house. Oikawa is a shadow behind him, just as quiet. There’s a click when he cocks the gun.

Suga’s exhaustion is gone now. The sleepy, pliant pleasure has faded. The adrenaline is back, pumping with a ferocity through his veins, and every limb is tensed, ready to take action if necessary.

It could very well be the neighbors. Him and Oikawa had made a lot of noise after all, firing off rounds and then there had been that explosion in the kitchen… but Suga is very aware that it could be someone from either of their teams, sent to get rid of any loose ends now that their covers have been revealed to be fake and plastic.

Suga grits his teeth. He’ll die before he lets anyone touch Oikawa. He’ll kill them all if he has to.

The front door looms up out of the gloom then. Suga slows and then creeps to one of the side windows, doing his best to see outside. His heart thumps heavy in his chest. He can sense Oikawa behind him — probably on the stairs, gun raised.

Taking another deep breath, Suga peeks around, out onto the porch, fingers flexing at his sides… and all he can see is the hazy, yolk-yellow glow of the streetlights lining the cul-de-sac and the moon just barely edging out from behind the clouds in a sliver of silver and -

Suga reaches out and flips the porch light on and then slides the lock. Relief swims thick and heavy through his head but he still only cracks the door open a bit, pushing his head through the gap and putting on his best fake smile.

He had been right.

Two cops stand out there on the steps but it’s Oikawa and Suga’s neighbors who frame the doorway. Two faces Suga had never imagined he’d be this fucking happy to see.

"Yeah?" Suga asks, still smiling.

Sawamura Daichi and Kuroo Tetsurō share a look and then both sets of eyes are back on Suga’s face. They look like they’ve just gotten back from some kind of dinner party, decked out in suits. Kuroo’s eyes are wide.

"Is everything okay? We heard an awful ruckus," Sawamura starts, smiling somewhat sheepishly at Suga and then laughing awkwardly. The cops shift behind them. They look bored now that Suga has answered the front door and seems to be okay.

"No, everything’s fine here," Suga answers brightly. "Yeah, it’s great."

Somewhere behind him, Oikawa snorts but Suga ignores it.

"So," Kuroo starts slowly, eyebrows furrowed, "you guys are - you’re - you’re fine?" He looks dubious and Suga can’t really blame him but… but Sawamura is beginning to look more uncomfortable the longer they stand there and Suga is more than aware of the fact that he’s only in a button-up and boxers behind the door. Oh, and that he’s covered in plaster dust and probably looks thoroughly fucked out.

Suga opens his mouth to answer, thinking of some way to get them to leave as fast as possible, but then warm arms wrap around his waist from behind. A familiar body presses up close to his back, pushed against every inch of him. Oikawa’s lips brush his ear.

Suga nearly tells him to go back to the stairs but then… but then a wicked idea lights up in his head to get the others to leave. He pushes farther back into Oikawa’s chest, satisfaction curling warm and content in the pit of his stomach.

They can have a little fun, can’t they?

And Oikawa must be having the same thought because he reaches out over Suga’s shoulder and swings the door the rest of the way open before Suga can do it first.

It’s Suga, though, who gets to grin wider and speak, absolutely relishing in the expressions on the four stunned faces in front of them.

"Yeah," he drawls, answering Kuroo’s question. "Couldn’t be better."

Oikawa’s identical sharp smile is hidden against the back of Suga’s neck, he can feel it pressed there. And combined with Kuroo and Sawamura’s shell-shocked facial expressions… the whole thing is priceless.

Suga’s not sure what state of undress Oikawa is still in (he’s pretty sure he’s still just in his underwear) but Sawamura lets out a strangled, startled laugh and then Kuroo is saying, "Oh, nice," in a dazed voice and then stuttering out, "You guys have a nice - I mean, have a nice - a nice night" and the cops are averting their eyes and Suga is barely holding back his laughter when Oikawa speaks up.

"Have a nice night," he finishes for Kuroo, purring the words over Suga’s shoulder, his chin notched into the curve of Suga’s neck now, his tall frame draped over Suga’s back.

"Officers," Suga greets, nodding his head towards the two uniformed women behind them and Sawamura is still chuckling like he doesn’t know what else to do and Kuroo is still babbling.

"Looks like you’re - like you’re - redecorating. It’s, uh, nice," he says haltingly, trying to smile and gesturing at the wreckage behind Oikawa and Suga but the next thing Suga knows, Oikawa has pushed the door closed and it clicks back into place, blessing them with silence.

Suga bursts out laughing.

"Oh my God," he breathes out, turning into Oikawa’s chest and peering up at him, still giggling.

Oikawa is grinning, wide and bright, eyes alive with mischief. "Well that was unexpected," he says, running his palms up and down Suga’s back, wrinkling his shirt more. "I’m just glad I didn’t have to shoot anyone."

"Mm, me too," Suga agrees. He feels light. He feels like he could float up and up and up and never come down.

He feels even better when Oikawa ducks his head down to murmur against his ear, yanking him closer to his body.

"I can think of some more redecorating we could do upstairs," Oikawa drawls. "The bedroom should be untouched, don’t you think?"

Suga answers him with a searing kiss… and then he tugs Oikawa up the steps, leaving their guns behind them on the floor.