[When Ushijima finally comes, Sakusa has to bite his lip to stifle a moan that should be all Ushijima's to make. The satisfaction sinks in as he watches all the small tells shift across Ushijima's face, shoulders, and chest. It's kind of thrilling to think that nobody has noticed what they've gotten up to while the staff and guests are none the wiser, and Sakusa drinks in the sight of Ushijima coming down, accompanied by a small smile that's reserved only for when they face each other on opposite sides of the net.]

You looked wrecked. You should see yourself.

[Once Ushijima's breathing evens out, Sakusa pulls out his wallet to retrieve his credit card and a wet wipe for himself and his date. He tucks both of the wipes into the napkin that had been spread across his lap, folds the napkin into a neat lump, and hands it across the table.]

Here, for cleaning up.

[He'd clean his own foot, but he'd still be sockless, and passing the wipes over the table is easier than passing a sock. He leaves his heel resting on Ushijima's thigh, careful not to overstimulate him. It's a nice option, but there are certain things for Sakusa's eyes only, and he wouldn't risk leaking that to unsuspecting eyes.

Besides, if Sakusa has his way, he doesn't intend to put that napkin to use for the rest of the evening. Ushijima might have gotten off, but Sakusa's still squirming, just barely, in place, his breathing even but heavy. Anybody else might not be table to tell how pent up he is, how he wants to be far louder than is appropriate at the dinner table. Sakusa slides the credit card he'd pulled out visibly into the waiter's view. It's black and, like their evening, limitless.]

That main course was very satisfying, but I want dessert.

[He looks across the table, eyes dark and wanting, hoping that Ushijima catches his drift.]