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“This is such a bad idea,” Atsumu mutters.

Suna quirks an eyebrow at him, and moves his head backwards, like he’s going to pull off Atsumu’s dick.

“I didn’t say you had to stop,” Atsumu says hastily, and Suna pauses. He grins around Atsumu’s dick, and Atsumu immediately regrets everything he’s ever said to Suna. Maybe even being born.

“Miya-senshu, where—oh, there you are!”

An assistant walks into the room, and Atsumu tenses. Suna is barely obscured from her vision by the dressing table, and she’s still walking closer. Oh my god. Atsumu can see the headlines now: YOUNG V-LEAGUE STARS BEING DEVIANTS BACKSTAGE WHILE TALK SHOW HOST WAITS TO INTERVIEW THEM.

Suna, because he’s a fucking dick, doesn’t pull off or retreat further into the shadows.

No, he sucks harder, and Atsumu has to bite back a moan as he turns to smile at the assistant. He reaches his hand under the table and searches for Suna’s hair. Then he pulls warningly.

The resulting noise—half growl, half moan, all around really fucking hot—takes Atsumu by surprise. Also the assistant, if the way she pauses and looks carefully at Atsumu is anything to go by.

“Sorry,” he apologises quickly. “Must be hungry—meant to get breakfast with ‘Samu before comin’ here, he’s around too ‘cuz of Omi-kun, but Rin overslept so we had to reschedule.”

He feels, rather than hears, Suna snort around his dick, and flushes slightly. Aight, so, maybe ‘Samu has a point whenever he says Atsumu sucks at lying, but hey, he’s covering up for Suna here! Where’s he get off laughing at him?!

It’s not even entirely false. Atsumu had wanted to meet up with Osamu, and they did reschedule for lunch, but the real reason they'd had to do so was because Atsumu had been too busy in the shower with Suna, Suna’s face pressed against the tiled wall, Atsumu’s tongue in his ass. Between the steam—both literal and figurative—and everything drenching Atsumu’s face—both the water and, eventually, to his satisfaction, Suna’s cum—Atsumu thinks it’s understandable he lost track of time. Osamu hadn’t even been surprised, just texted him that Atsumu was buying and they were on for lunch instead.

“Oh! We can get you food, if you're hungry?” the girl asks, and Atsumu blinks.

“It’s okay,” he says, and then has to choke back a gasp as Suna hollows his cheeks, the fucking asshole. “I know how to wait.”

He feels Suna smirk against his groin. Nice to know his pointed comment came through, even if Suna reacted to it completely unhelpfully. Dick.

“If you’re sure!” she says brightly, and then – steps closer? What?

“Okay, then, I’ll just get onto your hair and make up,” she says, and Atsumu’s eyes widen in panic. He’s not even kidding. His reflection looks petrified. He smoothes it over quickly, but she’s already putting her hands in his hair. Atsumu just really hopes she doesn’t look down, because then she could see Suna’s head bobbing up and down his dick, because apparently Atsumu’s—he doesn’t even know what to call Suna. His best friend? His FWB? The bane of his existence? His Rin? No, that last one's stupid gay, Atsumu, what the fuck, get your shit together—interview partner is a fucking demon.

Like. Atsumu gets it. It's kind of hot, knowing that there's someone literally right there, talking to him and styling his hair, and Suna is still going out of his way to choke on his dick where she could see him, but holy shit. Pick a time to give Atsumu a new kink, Sunarin, you absolute fuck.

"Are you excited about the Olympics?" she asks, right as Suna sinks so low on his cock that Atsumu can feel his nose buried against his hair and skin. Fuck. Atsumu bucks his hips, completely involuntarily, and immediately starts talking to distract her.

"Yeah, I think we've got a good chance this year!" If he sounds overly enthusiastic, shut up. Anything to distract her from wondering why the fuck he's jerking around so much, he thinks desperately. Suna begins bobbing up and down again, sucking hard, and Atsumu tries to think of anything not hot. His math teacher from second year. The JVA president. Lawnmowers.

But then Suna's hand creeps up to start jacking off the base of his dick while he sucks at the head, and Atsumu's head is full of Suna all over again – his stupid hot flexible torso, and the time he told Atsumu he'd try suck his own dick if Atsumu could come five times in one night (Atsumu's still trying for that one, because he thinks that would be stupid fucking hot, Suna curved in on himself and taking his own pretty cock in his own pretty mouth, holy shit, what the fuck, and for Atsumu, all of that just for Atsumu, for no-one else to see) – the way he smiles at Atsumu after he comes, self-satisfied and smirky and so fucking pretty that it hurts to look at him – Suna's sharp focus on the court, the way he reads everyone, the way he grins at Atsumu whenever he blocks a spike Atsumu sets up, or gets a spike past Atsumu's team – his fucking laugh, ringing in Atsumu's ears every time, the way it always has – Suna fucking into him, sucking marks into the skin of his thigh as he pounds into his ass – Suna's pretty fingers wrapped around Atsumu's cock, jerking him off while he murmurs to him, a constant stream of teasing him but telling him he's so pretty, so pretty like this, so pretty when he's all for Suna –

And then Suna starts fondling his balls, tugging on them and rolling the skin between his fingers, rubbing Atsumu's taint, and his vision gets fuzzy as he comes. Suna, naturally, because he is a menace, just keeps sucking, swallowing it all down. It's probably for the best, Atsumu knows, because it cleans up the mess, but holy shit. There's very few things in the world Atsumu finds hotter than stuffing Suna with his cum, and thinking about it dripping down Suna's throat as he walks out onto the stage to get interviewed – pooling in his stomach while he grins at Atsumu and their talk show host on national television, like he's just a talented professional athlete and not the reason behind 95% of Atsumu's kinks – fuck. 

Suna pulls off when Atsumu finishes, thank god, and Atsumu is scared to look in the mirror. He finally does, and flinches. He looks like he has a fucking fever, holy shit. Luckily, his stylist is the chattiest person on the planet (or maybe just very discreet) and doesn't seem to notice anything, just keeps chattering about how Hoshiumi is so talented as she runs her fingers through Atsumu's hair.

"We should make you less shiny," she says after a moment, which Atsumu thinks is a pretty polite way to say less sweaty and fucked out, so he nods. "Also, I should probably check on Suna, because I know you're going on first, but he'll join you pretty soon. Any idea where he is?"

"Probably being a menace somewhere," Atsumu says weakly. Almost immediately, probably in retaliation, Suna's mouth envelops his dick again, and Atsumu almost shouts. He's too fucking sensitive, he only just came, Suna, holy shit, don't be an asshole –

But Suna grazes the skin of his dick with his teeth, and Atsumu can feel tears welling up in his eyes.

"Actually, some food would be great," he says suddenly. Anything to get her out of the room. Just while the bane of Atsumu's horny existence is still under the table. "Sorry, just - " He waves his hands uselessly. "Need some energy for interviews, y'know?"

She looks at him oddly, but nods. "All right, I'll go get something. I'll be right back!"

She runs out of the room, and Atsumu breathes a sigh of relief. Then he glares down at Suna and tugs hard on his hair. Suna peels off his dick and grins up at him, shit-eating and unrepentant. Atsumu doesn't know if he wants to throttle him or kiss him.

"Yer a fuckin' dick," he grumbles. Suna climbs out from under the table and smiles, thumbing the tears from the corner of Atsumu's eyes.

"You're a baby," he says, and Atsumu scowls.

"Fuck off," he mutters. "Anyway. Got rid of her, didn't I? No thanks to you, asshole." He perks up a little. "Guess I'm not as bad of a liar as 'Samu says!"

Suna snorts. "No, you're a terrible liar," he says. "She's just nice. Or vapid. I don't know."

"Hey, be nice," Atsumu defends, even though he doesn't mean a word of it. "She's makin' me all pretty and shit. You too, I guess."

"You're already pretty," Suna murmurs, moving his hand down to cup Atsumu's cheek. "So pretty when you cry for me."

"God, yer a fuckin' asshole," Atsumu complains. He's not blushing. He hopes. Fuck.

"You like it, though," Suna says, and that's the worst part, isn't it? Atsumu does. Atsumu really does. "Besides, it was pretty hot, don't you think?"

Atsumu scowls. "Shuddup," he says. The he brightens. "I'm doing it to you next time," he threatens. "When yer doin' one of your video game streams with Motoya-kun and Washio-san. See how you like it."

Suna meets his eyes levelly, then smirks. "You're on," he says, then leans in and presses his lips against Atsumu's. He tastes like Atsumu's cum, and that shitty sugar candy he's always eating, and that indescribable warmth that Atsumu doesn't know how to describe any way other than Suna, what his Rin always tastes like.

It's his favourite taste. Atsumu kisses him back.

There's the sound of footsteps, steadily getting closer in the hallway outside the room they're in, and Atsumu pulls back with a sigh. Suna hums; gives him an unreadable look, heady and searching.

Atsumu's pulse quickens. He wonders if Suna would have pulled back if he hadn't. Wonders what that means, whether he likes it or not.

"Oh, Suna-senshu!" the girl says in greeting, cutting short Atsumu's swirling thoughts. She's holding a platter of food – some onigiri, some lighter snacks, a ramekin of rice at the side. "There you are! Would you like some food?"

Suna's eyes stay on Atsumu, and a slow smirk spreads across his face. Atsumu instinctually hates this.

"No thanks," Suna says casually. "Just had a pretty good meal."

Yep. Atsumu was right to be suspicious. He lets out a choked noise, and his face goes fucking scarlet. God. Suna Rintarou will be the death of him, he thinks darkly. He looks mutinously at the rice, stomping down to sit next to the low table where the girl put the platter.

"Suna-senshu, can you come with me then? We should clean up your hair a little, it looks a bit... mussed," the girl is saying, and Atsumu feels a stab of vindictive satisfaction.

"Sure," Suna says agreeably, but a second later, Atsumu feels Suna's hands on his shoulders. To a passing stranger, or the stylist in the room with them, it probably looks like a friendly grip, maybe a casual brush. To Atsumu, it feels both comforting and like a wildfire.

"Hey," Suna murmurs, his breath brushing against Atsumu's ears. "Probably my favourite breakfast of the month. I'd give you a good review on Tabelog. Gochisōsama."

Atsumu spends the rest of the time eating his rice blushing into his food, thinking about Suna's mouth – both the way it feels, and the things it says. He doesn't want to think about which one consumes more of his thoughts.