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Atsumu’s definitely going to blame Suna for this whole mess, even if it’s not strictly his fault.
Suna’s the one who invites him out to an impromptu pre-Christmas gathering and forgets to tell Atsumu the dress code — best ugly sweaters were an entry requirement, not a suggestion — which means that as he arrives he gets stuffed into a sweater the most horrible shade of green, covered in an array of tiny Vabo chans wearing Santa hats, with a giant tree made of a volleyball net with Christmas lights shaped like volleyballs in the center.
“This washes me out, Rin,” Atsumu grumbles.
“You’re a bottle blond,” Suna replies, tugging down the hem where it rides up around his stomach, just a shade too tight on him, “you wash yourself out.”
Then he sticks a mistletoe headband onto Atsumu, and pushes him through the door.
Honestly, the party isn’t worth it.
(“That’s because I didn’t plan it,” Suna snorts, over his flask.
“Then why am I here?”)
There’s minimal food, just some eggnog and shitty mulled wine to drink, while people keep getting stuck under the mistletoe and giggling until they share cheek kisses. All of them keep ignoring Atsumu until he realizes Suna’s last graceless act of aggression and stuffs the mistletoe into his pocket.
He leaves sometime later in the evening, citing train schedules and “nah, it’s okay, I don’t mind missin’ the ugly sweater competition, really, I borrowed this one anyway, I’d be cheating.”
When he emerges into the night, the temperature’s dropped a few degrees and he’s suddenly grateful for Suna’s horrible sweater, even though it stretches tight across his chest and keeps riding up to reveal his stomach. Even the stupid headband comes in handy — apparently Suna is a DIY master, and just pinned mistletoe to a pair of earmuffs — so on the long walk back to the nearest station, they keep Atsumu plenty warm.
The night is uncannily clear and bright, sky nearly free of clouds. Atsumu’s cloudy huffs of breaths and his footsteps are the loudest sounds in the street. When he gets to the train station, he’s shocked to find it’s nearly similarly empty, just a couple of people standing by with cameras looking way too enthusiastic for an 8:30 PM train.
“Aw man, I should’ve dressed up too!” One of them hoots to Atsumu. “You’re so clever, I bet that’ll look great!”
“Your white hair is plenty, uh, festive,” Atsumu says, before deciding he doesn’t want to keep up the conversation, walking a few feet down so he avoids getting into the same car with him.
The dots start connecting when — overtop the usual grinding sound of the train brakes as it slows to a stop — he hears Christmas music heralding its appearance. An instrumental version of Sleigh Ride blares instead of a horn as the train heads into the station, covered in green and red lights, bright paint and candy-cane stripes, and lots and lots of jingling bells holding on for dear life in the wind, instead of its usual dull gray. Atsumu likes gray! There’s no need for a change.
“What the fuck-” he says, only to be cut off by an even louder clanging of bells as the middle of the train passes, Santa bare to the evening air, calling out “Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!” as the train continues to brake.
This leaves Atsumu with barely a minute to make a decision.
He’s no Scrooge, but he’s maybe Scrooge adjacent. He’s had 24 years of no one to kiss on Christmas — which gets to a guy! — and Osamu and his mom loved the holiday, so from November onward the house was always full of Christmas music.
If there’s one thing he knows, there’s not enough variety to justify that kind of airplay. Until high school most of the English he knew came from these songs. Do not ask him what a Jingle Bell Rock is, for the love of god.
But he doesn’t hate Christmas. He just avoids it as much as possible unless some of Santa’s dumbest little helpers — Suna — trick him into attending holiday parties. Doesn’t go out of his way to decorate or listen to songs, buys one single pack of candy canes because, you know what, at least they get those right, and always pretends he just missed the deadline to order his Christmas KFC.
Now, though? Pressure builds in him.
There’s no way in hell he’s getting on board the Christmas train.
The doors slide open — no one gets off, but more Christmas music blares out, along with the dueling scents of cinnamon and peppermint — revealing an elf, or someone dressed the part, with pretty dark curls and a devastating smirk. He looks Atsumu up and down, gaze lingering briefly on his chest, before raising an eyebrow. “All aboard?” he asks, shaking a bell-covered basket with candy canes.
Maybe he will get on board the Christmas train.
“Uh,” he replies dumbly.
“Tick tock,” the elf says, nodding his head back and forth with the sound. “Doors are closing.”
The next train isn’t coming for twenty minutes. It’s cold. Atsumu just wants to go home.
He steps on board, and the doors close behind him. As he closes his eyes to shake off the cold, he misses the slightly dark look cross over the elf’s face. When he turns back, it’s replaced by a small smile on a jaw that could cut glass.
“I can’t fathom why you wouldn’t want to get onboard the Christmas train,” the elf says, just a little loud, to be heard over the music and Atsumu’s earmuffs. “You’re certainly dressed for the part.”
“That ain’t my fault,” Atsumu replies, even though the elf scoffs. “And you’re one to talk.”
The elf raises an eyebrow again, gesturing down at his body. He’s wearing a shirt as green as Atsumu’s with jaunty red cuffs dotted with bells and a high collar decorated with little embroidered Christmas trees. All of the buttons are red and there’s a little gap at his chest like it doesn’t quite fit right — the elf is particularly broad, Atsumu notes, self-consciously — and the hem is edged in a red velvet ruffle. He’s got shorts on over red and white striped tights, and his green shoes are tipped with little bells. He taps his foot to demonstrate.
“This is my uniform. I’ve just come off a shift from the North Pole,” he explains very seriously, before his expression cracks into a smile. It shocks a laugh out of Atsumu, and he takes the candy cane he offers with as much grace as he can muster, bells jingling all the while.
“Well, I hope you can forgive me for the slight.”
“Of course. ‘Tis the season, and all that, right?”
Atsumu laughs again, unwrapping the candy cane, ready to shove it into his mouth. He’s interrupted, though, by the elf suddenly stepping into his space.
“Hey!” He steps back, right against the train door. “What gives?”
“You’ve got mistletoe,” he explains, still too close, reaching up to tap on Atsumu’s stupid headband. “It’s tradition to kiss someone underneath it.”
24 years kissless, and Atsumu’s finally gonna make it happen with some underpaid elf on a Christmas train? No fucking way.
“It’d be nice if I got your name first,” he says, which is absolutely not what he should be saying. There’s a while to go till their next stop, and the train doors open on the other side of the car now, too, so he’s basically got his back up against the wall. Looking down the train — which is also decorated in similarly garish holiday colors — there are only a few other people on board. Another elf with dark hair and pretty eyes, who's been commandeered by the — seriously? — white haired guy Atsumu’d been trying to avoid, and a couple of other strangers more focused on taking pictures for Instagram. He should be fleeing to them instead of entertaining this. But it’s just a harmless kiss, right?
Their side is empty, honestly. Just him and the elf, still staring right at his lips.
“I’m Santa’s Helper Omi,” he replies, smirk back on his face. There’s no way in hell a guy that handsome has a name as cute as Omi, but he supposes that’s a perk of the job. “And what’s your name?”
“What’s it to ya?”
“Feisty…” he murmurs, and something about it cracks a little spark inside of Atsumu, but whether it’s arousal or fear he can’t tell. “I was going to check if you were on the naughty list. An elf can’t be caught kissing naughty boys, can he?”
“Guess you’ll just have to have faith in me…” There’s no way in hell that Atsumu is on a nice list, but maybe this elf can be persuaded.
“Hmm…” he hums, and in the quiet gap between them — the song has switched to O Holy Night — Atsumu bites off the end of the candy cane and crunches it between his teeth, delighting in the way Omi winces.
Manna from heaven. Doesn’t mean Atsumu’s going to follow fake rules for appropriate behavioor around candy canes.
“That was naughty.”
“Maybe Santa’ll forgive you. I betcha know him personally.”
Omi laughs, a light huff of a thing that makes Atsumu happy. “I do know him well.” He looks consideringly over Atsumu, and then shrugs. “It’s tradition,” he shrugs, and before Atsumu knows what’s happening, the elf leans in and presses his narrow lips to Atsumu’s.
O Holy Shit, Atsumu thinks. He expected a platonic peck on the cheek, not lips on lips. Omi’s lips are a little cold like he’s really flown in directly from the North Pole, and his breath tastes like spearmint when he opens his mouth to lick at the seam of Atsumu’s lips — what the fuck — tongue running along his teeth before he pulls back, smacking his lips, satisfied.
Atsumu’s nearly breathless. “You can call me Atsumu.”
“I hate the taste of candy canes,” Omi mutters, stepping back as the train comes to a halt at another platform.
“Ain’t that illegal in the North Pole?”
The elf snorts, and he looks out at the platform. The doors opposite them don’t open, but the ones further down do, and the other elf peels himself away from his human in order to hand out candy canes, as Silver Bells starts to play over the speakers.
“Those doors are broken,” he explains, but what’s inexplicable is the weird shiver that passes through Atsumu’s spine. “Makes my job easier.”
“I’ll bet,” Atsumu says, sucking a little nervously on the candy cane, noticing the way Omi’s eyes watch his lips painted a little cherry red from the dye, “more time to figure out where I stand on Santa’s lists, huh?”
“Right.” Omi shifts slightly, and the bells on his costume jingle as he moves, like a cat straight outta Whoville. “Oh, hang on, you should look outside.” He nudges Atsumu’s shoulder — manhandles him pretty effortlessly, which makes him feel giddy — and turns him around. “See? Pretty,” he says, and the elf is right, even if Omi is staring directly at him and not the view.
They’re passing through a part of town all decked up for the holidays, covered in pretty twinkling lights, with ornaments on the bare trees that sparkle in the glint of night. Snow falls gently down, coating the city in a crisp layer of white — sweet sugar, like a gingerbread house — and he can almost imagine the jingly sound of bells outside.
No, wait, that’s not his imagination — that’s Omi, turning to lean against one of the candy cane poles, looking down the compartment at the rest of the riders.
“You’re right,” Atsumu says, feeling the cold from the window against his face, “It’s real pretty.”
How long does he stay there, watching the city as it passes by? Who can say. Long enough that he’s sucked the candy cane to a fine, dangerous point, wondering if it’s time to bite it again. With the soft light outside, and the snowfall, and the sweater he has to keep tugging down, frowning into the window, and especially the scent of cinnamon in his nose, he starts to almost feel the Christmas spirit.
He’s also tuning out the music blasting above — why is Santa on the beach? He hates this one — but that’s for his own sanity. Thanks, Suna’s earmuffs.
Just before he’s about to crunch down there’s a sudden rush of the bells, and he feels a warm heat behind him.
“Omi?” he gulps, pulling the candy cane away.
“Atsumu…” Omi says, and there’s a dangerous tone to his voice that doesn’t go right to his cock, absolutely not, no way. “I checked with Santa, and do you know what he had to say?”
Atsumu has emphatically not believed in Santa since he was 6, no matter what lies Osamu tells all their friends. “Last I checked, Santa wasn’t real.”
“Oh he’s real, alright,” the elf laughs as the train turns a sharp corner, pressing Atsumu into the glass and him into Atsumu. “And he told me you were on the naughty list.”
Atsumu drops his candy cane, and it shatters across the train floor while Omi snorts. He was right; the elf is broad. Even though they’re only a couple inches apart, he feels almost small with the wide stretch of his shoulders, the hand pressing against the glass next to him, starting to box him in, the strong torso, and the - oh god.
“Is that a candy cane in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” he gulps, and he feels the elf’s answering chuckle roll down his back and go straight to his own, traitorous cock, half-hard in his stupid jeans already.
“It could be a candy cane, if you’re good,” Omi says. “But, since I have evidence that you’re naughty, it probably isn’t.”
That word shouldn’t be hot — unfortunately, Atsumu’s dick is hardwired for nonsense. “W-what are you doing?” Atsumu asks, hissing as a cold hand presses against his torso where his stupid sweater has ridden up, Vabo-chan’s betrayal, before it starts to travel up his chest, pushing his sweater higher and raising a trail of goosebumps on his skin.
“Didn’t I tell you, Atsumu?” His voice a dark whisper in Atsumu’s ear as he widens his legs so Atsumu feels something very hard and warm press against the cleft of his ass. “You’ve been a bad boy this year. I’m offering you a chance to make it onto Santa’s nice list, unless you want a lump of coal for Christmas.”
“I don’t know-fuck,” he hisses, as Omi’s hand pinches his nipple.
“Shh,” he hushes, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Atsumu picks up the green of his hat and those pretty curls in his peripheral vision. In the window, their reflection is certainly something, Omi’s dark eyes meeting his gaze, his hand bulging out of Atsumu’s tight sweater, the stupid mistletoe earmuffs half askew and pushed back so the elf can whisper, his stomach and dark hair visible and cold from the ambient chill in the window. “I can help you get on Santa’s nice list again, as long as you listen to me like a good little boy,” and fuck does that go right to Atsumu’s stupid little cock.
So what if he likes praise? Sue him. Everyone does.
Atsumu gulps. “And what if I don’t? Wanna be on his nice list. Maybe I like being on the naughty list just fine.” Okay. Sue him. He’s also a bit of a pest.
Omi stills behind him, completely. He’s not even breathing, and the danger makes Atsumu ache. It feels like a viper poised to strike. “Hah!” He pinches Atsumu’s nipple especially hard, nails digging into the sensitive, delicate flesh, and tugs it down.
“If you don’t listen, then I won’t make this easy on you. I’m in trouble too, remember? I need to correct your behavior, and if you’re good for me I can make this good for you. But if you’re bad, and don’t want to fall in line, then I can’t guarantee you’ll enjoy this.” He pulls harder, like he’s trying to pinch his nipple right off.
Shit. Atsumu’s caught between a rock and a hard place. Or a cock and a — concentrate, Atsumu!
“What about everyone else on the train?” he asks, and Omi must sense how close he is to agreeing, because he stops abusing his nipple, pressing against it gently instead.
“My associate will take care of them. And the door behind us is broken, like I said. But,” he adds, warningly, pressing his face closer to Atsumu’s neck where he’ll no doubt smell the slight hint of his pine bodywash and the faint remnants of mulled wine from the party earlier, “you’ll have to be quiet. If you make noise, someone might be compelled to check up on us.” Omi’s hand traces back down his chest, and down to his crotch, right above his fly.
“Like the other elves?”
“You know what they say. He sees you when you’re sleeping.” Before Atsumu can comprehend the implication, Omi snaps his fly open with skillful fingers and unzips it, bringing his other hand down from above Atsumu and wrapping it around his waist, so he’s really and truly trapped in the elf’s grip now. There’s a hard cock pressing insistently against his ass, and the breadth of it through the thin fabric of his elf costume makes Atsumu grind back, already a little desperate. “Interesting,” the elf pets just above his cock, in that ticklish liminal space right along the band of his underwear. “Tell me, Atsumu. Will you be good for me?”
Atsumu shouldn’t. He should break free of Omi’s hold, bolt down the train car and escape at the next stop, and hide out for the rest of the holidays until the Christmas train disappears and he can know peace.
But it’s been so long since he’s been kissed, let alone touched. And the next train would be so far away, and he doesn’t want to wait in the cold, half-hard, aching to get home and jack himself off to the memory of this elf’s touch.
“I don’t wanna get coal,” Atsumu admits. He feels Omi smile against his cheek.
“Oh? Tell me exactly what you’re going to be for me, Atsumu. Use your words.” His fingers brushing under the band, touching his pubes, so close.
“I’m gonna be a good boy for you, Omi,” he says, the words breaking past his lips like they’re being carried on the wind. “I’ll get myself back on the nice list.”
“And you’ll be quiet?” One last request.
Atsumu hesitates.
“No?” he murmurs.
“I might need help,” he admits. “I’ve been told I can be loud.”
“Hmm.” One of Omi’s hands retreats. There’s a sound of plastic, and some ruffling, and the bells again before something comes up and presses against his lips: the thin and familiar head of a candy cane. “Suck on this, and don’t drop it again. We’ll have to clean it up.”
Atsumu nods, catching Omi’s dark eyes in the mirror, ominous and hungry despite the jaunty tilt of his elf cap. His smile twists into something dark and delighted.
He licks a stripe up Atsumu’s neck, eyes shuddering closed with the taste of his musk and the lingering scents on his body, and it shocks Atsumu into nearly dropping the candy cane. But he recovers quickly, shivering as Omi keeps working at his neck, sucking in a hickey that he knows won’t fade for a while and that he’s going to hate explaining to Osamu.
Overhead, Santa Baby blasts. He’s got no idea, Atsumu thinks.
Meanwhile, the elf’s hands venture down into his underwear, pulling it low and tugging out his cock. The sudden rush of air on it makes Atsumu hiss around the candy and suck deeper, twisting it in his mouth and relishing in the sting of the mint on his tongue while Omi gathers up some of the precum that had been dampening his underwear despite his earlier fear, and starts to brush his fingers up along his cock.
He’s petting it, really, like a toy. “So sweet for me, Atsumu,” he mutters against the wet spot on his neck, while Atsumu shivers and bucks back against him, ass against his cock. “So sensitive, too,” as he trails his fingers airily along the underside, before wrapping his hand around it. The other hand climbs back up his ribs, almost ticklish, making him wiggle in place, trapped completely within Omi’s grasp.
It sneaks up his sweater, pushes and pushes and pushes until it reveals one of Atsumu’s dark, wide nipples, the other side still stuck underneath the soft muscle of his pec, and he sees Omi’s gleeful grin in the reflection, like he’s a kid on Christmas morning.
“What a lovely present for me.”
Glad we’re on the same wavelength, he thinks, before Omi licks his fingers and twists his nipple, pulling it and pressing and playing with it like it really is a toy. He’s always been sensitive there, and something about the cold coming through the window exacerbates it, making Atsumu’s thighs twitch and ache, closing his eyes while his hips jut forward into Omi’s grip, his hand still so the bells don’t jingle.
“Such a good boy, Atsumu, you’re even fucking yourself for me.” He kisses the bruise on Atsumu’s neck before moving to a new place, and for a while that’s all Atsumu feels.
His world zeroes in on Omi messing with his nipple, turning it into a brazen, bruised little thing, all pain and pressure and the electric ecstasy it stirs inside of Atsumu, roiling his nerves into action. It becomes the tight grip he has on Atsumu’s cock, and the shimmering sensation as he jerks in his hold, the touch a little dry — just the way he likes it — and irregular, making his body curl in delight. He huffs around the candy cane, sucking it deeper and biting when it becomes too much, too much, but not enough all at once.
It’s the positive feedback loop from hell, the random motions on his cock adding to a breathless pile of pleasure inside of him, building and building and building while his heels dig into the floor and he thinks maybe as his balls tighten and his head starts feeling like it’s full of snow when the train slows to a stop and he hears the doors open and the quiet murmur of a crowd stepping in. Feels the cool breeze from the station ghosting across his nipple and bare cock.
The fear makes him freeze, worried, as the train starts moving again.
“Ignore them, Atsumu,” Omi insists, but Atsumu can’t. They make him so nervous he pulls the candy cane out of his mouth.
“But what if they see us, Omi? Then Santa’ll get so mad.”
“They’re not going to see you,” he says, grinding insistently against Atsumu’s ass but Atsumu won’t be deterred.
These strangers are going to come down and see Atsumu getting fucked by a Christmas elf because he was bad this year, stole too many of Osamu’s puddings and ate the umeboshi out of the middle of his onigiri, digging his grubby little fingers into the rice, and buying bot accounts to inflate the number of likes he got on Instagram. He still doesn’t move so Omi tightens his grip around his cock, making him gasp.
“I’ll help you through it, Atsumu, remember, we’re in this together.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees — through Omi’s curls — the few people who just stepped on taking pictures of the other elf, diligently posing against the door. God, what if he’s in one of those pictures, so lewd and on display, chest out against the glass.
His cock gives a traitorous little twitch in Omi’s grasp, proof of life, and the worry and concern on Omi’s face is replaced by that dark, delighted look again. “Or do you like that? The idea of being watched.”
A stupid rosy blush fills Atsumu’s cheeks, making Omi laugh against him, stifling the sound in his neck. “N-no,” he stutters out, while Omi works his cock for him. “Of course not.”
“Your cock is saying otherwise, Atsumu. Are you lying to me? Do good boys lie now?”
Shit, he’s got Atsumu there. “Good boys don’t lie.”
“And you want to be good, right Atsumu?” Atsumu nods. “So tell me the truth.” He pinches Atsumu’s nipple again so he arcs against the touch, chest pressing out lewd, pushing his hand close to the glass. “Tell me that you want them to see you, that you want all the visitors on this train and all of Santa’s elves to come and watch you get fucked. Isn’t that right, Atsumu?”
“Y-yes,” he gasps out, as Omi pumps his fist around Atsumu’s cock, the jingles muffled a little, releasing his grip on his nipple to push his chest further forward so it touches the cold glass, the sting weirdly pleasant from the burning torture Omi was performing, and pulling his ass out further so Omi’s cock is sandwiched between them as he grinds on it. “That’s what I want.”
“You want all eyes on you as I fuck your ass wide open in the center of the train car, bending you over the seats while everyone clicks their cameras and watches you put on a little show?” Who taught this elf to talk like that? It’s as if he’s got Atsumu’s stupid horny wishlist, and he’s checking every item off line by line. “Want them to hear all your cute little whines and moans and gasps? I know it’s killing you to keep quiet, know you’re a bad little boy at heart.”
“No Omi, I’m good, I’m good,” he insists, breath turning to ice on the mirror while he huffs out his quiet protests, sucking down a groan when Omi twists his wrist like he’s a fucking devil. “I wanna be quiet, I wanna be good.”
“Then tell me what you really want, Atsumu, not what you think you want.”
Atsumu pauses, then gasps when Omi’s other hand smacks right above his cock.
“Tell me,” he demands, “or I’ll personally write your name on the naughty list in pen.”
Not pen!
“I want… I want…” he’s still quiet with it, but in the glass, Omi looks encouraging, kind. Almost like he could trust him, even when he’s working his cock like it’s his calling. “I wanna be fucked so everyone can see me.”
“All on display, like a little whore?”
“Like a little whore,” he agrees, forehead against the glass. “Want everyone to hear me moan too loud and have their eyes turn — fuck — to us. Want you to mount me so everyone’s watching.” With their cameras and everything, and god Atsumu thinks about it, hearing the click of the shutter while Omi pounds into him from behind, grunting loud and fucking him with abandon, before pulling him up, back against chest so his cock and balls and bruised nipples are all on display, a ring of hickeys around his neck.
“Come for me, Atsumu, you’re so close, aren’t you? Santa’s little slut, right?”
Atsumu’s so fucking close, and he thinks about it more — shaking bells hooked onto his nipples so he jingles when he’s fucked, his lips sucked red from kissing, while he cries above the Christmas music and his cock, brazen and hard, bounces in the slight breeze of the train as the door opens and more passengers pile on, ready for the show.
“Good boys come, Atsumu, and you want to be good for me, don’t you?”
And that does it. Atsumu bites his lip to stifle his cries while his hips jerk forward into Omi’s grip, and he comes, thighs shaking and legs barely holding him up as he digs his toes down, curling with passion and pleasure, into Omi’s fist, painting the inside of it with cum as white as the snow outside.
“Good, Atsumu,” he says, and Atsumu delights in the praise, breathing carefully in and out while he tries to make sure he’s not too loud.
Above them, Jingle Bell Rock blares.
Omi pulls back from him, jingling, while Atsumu pitches forward even more, and his eyes close while he works through the shattering remnants of his orgasm.
"Ugh, I need a towel," Omi says, grimacing down at his hand.
Atsumu frowns. “Don’t you wanna come?” he asks, still a little breathless. "I can help, I can be good."
His soft cock perks a little in delight, even though he's wrung through and needs a break.
From the way Omi's expression brightens, he's into it too. Atsumu being good.
"I can't fuck you on a train, Atsumu, it would be too loud."
Atsumu shakes his head, though the idea of it — Omi opening him up, Omi’s cock inside of him — flashes through his mind for a moment. "Thighs," he insists, and then — when Omi still doesn't get the picture, takes things into his own hands — pulls down his pants and underwear to his knees, more exposed, the perk ripple of his hole shivering in the empty air.
Then he spits on his hands and rubs them between his legs, before clenching them close together. "Thighs," he insists, and watches clarity dawn slowly across Omi's face in the glass.
"Thighs…. Very good, Atsumu, I'll report back to Santa immediately."
Even in the half delirious, cumdumb haziness — Atsumu has never gotten postnut clarity in his life — the praise warms him, fills him, delights him. The nice list is in his grasp.
Omi reaches between his legs and spreads them apart a little to wipe off the tacky cum on his inner thighs, and the bell keep jingling as he adjusts his stance, pulls out his cock, which smacks against Atsumu's ass, a little wet at the tip and delighted in being free. "Brace yourself," he says, right behind Atsumu again, back to chest and resting half his weight against him, staring at him through the mirror. "I won't hold back. And keep them tight for me."
Atsumu will. He knows how to be good.
"One more thing, Atsumu?" He asks, sliding his cock along the cleft of his ass, hand gripping his hip while his thumb toys with the flesh. It ghosts for a split second over his hole, and the breadth of his thick head makes Atsumu shiver, breathing life to his cock again, and he wonders if one day he'll know what it feels like inside of him.
"What, Omi?" He breathes out, fluttery and far away.
"Keep quiet." And without any warning, Omi's head breaks through the gap in his thighs, right below the shelf of his ass, and into the soft heat below.
Fuck. Atsumu's glad he was warned, because otherwise he'd be yelling. Just with his thighs, Omi's relentless, and his thick veiny cock rubs against his taint deliciously, the bulging head pressing against the base of his balls.
He's never been so grateful for his thick thighs as he is now, with Omi pounding away at him. There's a wet squelch from the cum and spit, and the shallow sound of Omi's hips snapping against his ass. Each hit ripples through Atsumu, and he swears he could scratch the glass from how good it feels alone.
And all the while those absurd bells are jingling, ringing out a symphony that echoes through Atsumu's ears, alongside Omi's quiet grunts and moans as he chases his pleasure, too desperate and needy for how vocal he was earlier.
Luckily, Carol of the Bells is playing now, and it all blends in.
Omi fucks his thighs for a while, before his pace peters out and his thrusts slow. He tightens his legs for Omi, hoping the extra pressure will help him, and he gets a groan of "good boy," and a smack to his ass as thanks. Atsumu thinks that means he's close.
"Fuck, Atsumu," as his cock twitches between his thighs, that telltale jerkiness that comes before orgasm, "I'm gonna, I'm-"
"C'mon, Omi, you can do it,"
“Atsumu, I can't, we’re going to make a mess, I need you to, I need-" he cuts himself off, dropping his face into Atsumu's neck and trying to stifle his feelings and stave off his orgasm.
Atsumu gets it, and so he pushes a confused Omi away, before he takes a quick glance around to see that no one’s watching and drops to his knees, too fast for him to be confused. Good boys don’t make messes, and bad boys don’t find their way back onto Santa’s nice list.
"Use my mouth, Omi," he says, seeing the thick length for the first time, licking his peppermint lips at how delicious it looks, how much he wants that to ruin his throat one day. "Come inside, that'll keep it clean,"
"Fuck, Atsumu," he shudders, shakily guiding his cock to the open target of Atsumu's mouth, brushing his lips with some of the precum before slipping his head in, "do you know how good you look?"
Good enough to get off the nice list, Atsumu hopes, feeling cum drip down his thighs, the cool breeze on his bare ass, his own cock and balls out for anyone with a little bit of curiosity to see.
But no one is stumbling over. It's just them here, in their own little corner, away from the rest of it.
He sucks on Omi's head — just enough to catch it all, but not so much he'll choke — and he likes the way it fits in his mouth, likes the long slit he licks along, as Omi pumps his cock rapidly and harshly, the bells shaking with a quickness.
Atsumu's still got his headband on, and he's kissing Omi's dick under the mistletoe.
That's the last thought that comes to mind before Omi — his other hand pressed against the glass so he's totally covering Atsumu, head pressed back nearly against the closed door — comes with a cut off groan and a tension in his beautiful pale thighs, and bursts his cum down Atsumu's throat in a few waves of aftershocks.
And like a good little cockslut, Atsumu swallows it all up, Santa Claus is Coming To Town playing over the speakers.
They clean themselves up — Atsumu sucking down another candy cane to wipe out the bitter, nearly citrusy taste of Omi's cum — and just in time, too, because they've reached the part of the tracks where the door Atsumu's been pressed against starts opening again.
He sits in a comfortable train seat, proudly watching Omi greet guests and hand out candy canes with a grumpy expression on his face like he'd rather be anywhere else.
He's already missed his stop, anyway. Might as well see where this goes.
And besides. They’ve gotta check that list twice, after all.