Too Loud

Sakuatsu

Atsumu shudders as Sakusa's neatly filed nails lightly scratch over his clothed chest. "Omi," the nails trace thin lines, then circles, and other arbitrary shapes around the nub. The tip protrudes through the fabric as it's stimulated, a shade of pale brown visible through his translucent dress shirt. Sakusa hums and pinches it, which has Atsumu's toes curling inward in his loafers. "Here?" Is all the blond can manage to ask, as he has to bite down on his lip when Sakusa twists his nipple relentlessly.

Here, also defined as the men's bathroom located inside the Japanese National Sports Arena.

"We hafta," his palms slam into the wall as Sakusa proceeds to tease the other side with feathery touches. "Hafta be back before intermission is over."

"I suppose we have fifteen minutes, then."

He's gotta be kiddin'. It becomes clear that Sakusa is in fact, not kidding, because he tugs on the collar of Atsumu's blazer and pulls it off with one swift snap of his wrist. "If someone comes in," he whispers in panic, as he feels the weight of his blazer glide down his trembling arms. Fuck, Sakusa snatches the dangling sleeves and ties them around Atsumu's wrists in a loose but uncomfortable knot. "The hell's with ya today?"

"Nothing," is Sakusa's curt answer, but Atsumu doubts it, with how ticked he looks.

"Ya shouldn't take out yer frustrations on someone else, Omi-kun," the spiker squints at him, "ain't this about those reporters pesterin' ya about how ya lost four serves to EJP?" Bull's eye, apparently, because Sakusa's brows knit together at an elevated angle. "Aw, c'mon, don't be so dejected. 'S just a receive miss –" he sucks in a lungful of oxygen as Sakusa's knuckles apply pressure to his groin, the bony joint of his middle finger digging into the soft skin. "'M jokin', calm the fuck down..."

Instead, Sakusa hooks his finger into his mask and pulls it down to reveal the tilted corner of his lips. "How many times can you come in fourteen minutes, Miya?"

Shit.

"I have an interview scheduled after this," he replies – a futile attempt to negotiate.

"How's that any of my business?"

Fair point.

"Once," it's not like he's ever timed himself, "once."

"Surely Miya Atsumu can do better."

He doesn't have the leisure to protest when the ruthless nails are back on his chest, abusing his areolas, sifting back and forth on a gradient of strength. The millimeter of space created by the cloth of his shirt makes the sensation all the more excruciating, with there being too much and not quite enough simultaneously. Atsumu's tongue grazes his canine tooth as he swallows the moan which crawls up his vocal cord. The echo of his pulse cranks up in volume as he heeds the metallic clink of his belt being undone, his assumption proven by the abrupt slackness around his waist. In the next second, his pants are lying limply by his ankles, the cool air of the bathroom encasing his naked thighs.

Please tell me he's locked the door.

"You can probably come just with your nipples if I play with them long enough."

Atsumu's ears flush red, "Don't ya fuckin' dare –"

"We don't have much time remaining for that, unfortunately." He grunts through his clamped mouth when Sakusa's hand sweeps up his half-hardened cock in his boxers. "And in case you were wondering," the man leans in, his elbow on Atsumu's shoulder – the added mass causes Atsumu to lose his balance, slipping towards the floor. He barely catches himself mid-fall and mutters a cuss under his breath, but even that is transformed into a sharp sigh as Sakusa's hand tugs at the elastic band covering Atsumu's erection – and then lets go, the band hitting it with a silent clap. "No, I didn't lock the door. It's a public bathroom, after all."