Prompt Post #1 [OPEN]

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PAIRING TAGS, BRIEF SUMMARY/KINKS, WARNINGS (IF ANY)

eg. Yachi/any, rimming

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FILL: "TITLE" (PAIRING TAGS, BRIEF SUMMARY/KINKS) (WARNINGS IF ANY)

eg. FILL: "afternoon practice" (Kiyoko/Yachi, rimming)
 

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Comments

FILL: "service ace" (oikage, dubcon)

[(Anonymous)]

oh my god this is a mess but i needed to exorcise it from my life. /salutes


Kageyama's tie is surely crooked by now, because he can't keep his hands off it. He's sweating, just enough to feel it itching at his hairline. He needs to shower and his eyes ache and he's going to miss the last train, but when Oikawa turns around it's like the sudden drop in his stomach when a lift reaches the destination floor. The distance between them is so claustrophobic with obscure expectations that there's no polite way to excuse himself. Kageyama's nerves are stripped wire, twitching with anxious energy.

"Oikawa-san," he tries, but the sentence is another dead end that his brain slams against, leaving him momentarily stunned from the impact.

"Scary," Oikawa answers, with a lilt that implies it isn't even a little.

The suite's curtains are drawn. There's an armchair, and a bed, with a sedately moss-coloured duvet. The potted plants are fake, traced faintly with dust, and Oikawa is humming among them like expectations have never troubled him in his life. Oikawa is shrugging out of his jacket as though he's about to make himself at home, and his footsteps make no sound on the carpet. There's no reason for Kageyama to be here, watching every dip and turn and careless toss of hair, but he hasn't thought of a good reason to leave yet, either.

"You started making a scary face," Oikawa adds, as he folds his blazer over his arm. "Can it be that you've had second thoughts already?"

A cafe with late hours would have been cheaper. The hotel bar was probably fine, given his colleagues had parted ways so early; after this many years Kageyama can't imagine anything Oikawa could possibly have to say that requires more privacy than that. He can't imagine a conversation at all, but he has to, because he's still here, and Oikawa Tooru is leaning on the arm of the chair with a razor-thin smile, and Kageyama hasn't even had first thoughts. Oikawa's outfit looks distractingly like his school uniform had: white shirt short enough that it flashes a sliver of skin at the stomach when he stretches back too far. His tie's in a half-hearted knot, juvenile, and it's all very strange because the rest of him doesn't actually look like he had looked in school, except for his ridiculous haircut. His haircut hasn't changed in the slightest.

Kageyama's not drunk, strictly speaking. It's more like he's just a little bit overheated, and everything is still moving too slowly and too fast in turns, like a stuttering analogue film. Dissonance hisses through its soundtrack with static, drowning his thoughts in the noise. This Oikawa Tooru is so much sharper than the memory he inhabits, all the softness of youth gone from his face. His body is muscled but somehow too compact, imparting less the impression of something built on and more like something carved away.

"I still run," Oikawa offers, because of course he notices Kageyama looking.

When Kageyama finds his voice at last, he says, "I didn't ask," but by then Oikawa has closed the distance, and his hands are already on Kageyama's face. By then Oikawa is pushing at the furrow between Kageyama's brows, and unlike the rest of him Oikawa's fingertips are unexpectedly soft, tellingly uncallused, capable now of a butterfly-light skitter from Kageyama's forehead and down the bridge of his nose, halfway across his cheek before Kageyama knocks the arm away and says, "Stop."

"Stop?" Oikawa echoes blankly, like it's a word from a language he doesn't speak. Oikawa is leaning in close enough for Kageyama to smell his cologne, something airy and coy, and despite the lightness of the scent Kageyama feels like his throat is closing up around it. Oikawa's pout is weirdly dewy from lip gloss, and Kageyama can feel the warmth radiating out from his chest, can see his neck work when he swallows, a faint glitter of sweat caught in his eyebrows. The way he imposes all these minute, irrelevant details of his biology on Kageyama's awareness is suddenly infuriating; overwhelming.

"Why," he's murmuring, close enough to the side of Kageyama's face that his ridiculous hair tickles at his ear, "you do know how this works, don't you?"

"I don't--" Kageyama starts to say, but Oikawa pushes a finger to his lip, and he does know. He'd began to suspect in the lobby and he'd considered it very seriously when Oikawa's hands slid into his pockets, and now, in a hotel suite he'd probably paid for without arguing about even it a little, Oikawa Tooru's finger is trying to slide between his lips, and Kageyama can't breathe, he's not drunk at all, and he knows.

Kageyama turns his head to the side with a grimace, so that Oikawa's finger drags wet across his cheek, then falls to a loose grip at his necktie, temporarily thwarted. "No need to be rude," Oikawa chides, with a sticky and vacuous smile that is exactly as fake as Kageyama remembers it after all these years, so that he feels a weird rush of something near to remorse even as frustration begins to churn again in his gut, a restless tension seething his joints.

Oikawa is tugging the knot free, flicking a button loose with his thumb while his eyes never leave Kageyama's face. Beneath his stupid fringe Oikawa's eyes are sharp and cold, not at all nostalgic.

"You don't?" Oikawa prompts then, slowly, the words exaggerated by the absurd shape of his mouth, and Kageyama's trapped, pressed against the door, trapped by Oikawa's proximity and the glossy wet pout of his lips. Oikawa takes advantage of his silence and snakes his fingers through Kageyama's hair until he's cupping the back of his skull, but the tension doesn't break, and Kageyama can't move at all, can't concentrate on anything but those hands, and how they'd pushed at his mouth only moments ago. The seconds begin to pass like a slow trickle of honey in his head, newly sweet and suffocating. He doesn't fight it because Oikawa only makes a loose fist, pulling sideways with just enough force to skirt the boundary of pain. "Liar," Oikawa whispers, shiny lips curling, and suddenly he's dragging teeth down Kageyama's exposed throat, a brief sharp scrape on his skin that ends with the gentlest exhalation at Kageyama's collarbone. "You're still a brat, you know that?"

Kageyama opens his mouth to reply but to his horror it just emerges as a choked off noise, and Oikawa looks so very pleased, his face and his mouth so very near, that when Kageyama bends forward to kiss him and never catches his lips, the absence of an answering pressure is enough to make him dizzy. "Oikawa-san--"

Oikawa's mouth is so red, like an overripe fruit's splitting skin, but Oikawa's palm is pressed to Kageyama's sternum--holding him back, rejecting his terms of surrender--and Kageyama's heartbeat throbs so hard in his throat he can't breathe except in the smallest stuttering gasp.

"We don't do that," Oikawa is saying, shaking his head like he's delivering a lecture to a child, so that all Kageyama can do is nod along, lost, while his pulse struggles to race out of his skin. It's somehow easier to agree to small conditions, these new and easily digestible conditions, while the whole of the thing pushes at the edges, too large for him to take in. Oikawa's palm slides down his chest, down further still, until his hands are a weight pulling at Kageyama's belt, his knuckles a flirtatious brush against Kageyama's stomach.

"Ah ah," he smiles, gently. "There's the Tobio I remember. Knows when to listen to senpai."

It's as though inside him has begun to shake, a trembling feeling deep enough down that it doesn't quite reach the surface. Kageyama's hands are steady, his hands are always steady, but somehow they feel like they should be shaking at his sides. He doesn't know what he wants to do with them--curl them into fists, or touch Oikawa's face, or his hair--he only knows that he wants to kiss this Oikawa and he can't, so he falls back against the door and lets Oikawa drop down and breathe hot against his navel while his fingers work the buckle.

Oikawa's hands shouldn't feel so familiar, because he's never touched Kageyama with anything like gentleness. Even now the soft press of his lips to Kageyama's hip is like a parody of intimacy, ruined by the wrong angles of his smile, the insincere gust of laughter against the straining front of Kageyama's briefs. And Kageyama's never expected anything else, so it's neither a disappointment nor a surprise for Oikawa to say, "you're very sensitive, aren't you," in a way that sounds more like an insult than anything. His fingers trace delicate lines along the cotton seams and Kageyama can't be sure whether he's begun to shake in earnest or it's just the dizzy blood rush in his head, but Oikawa's thumbs are digging into the hollows of his hips now, bruisingly hard, and his mouth is--

The drag of Oikawa's tongue is too dampened by the fabric and somehow still too much to bear. "Oikawa-san," Kageyama groans, and even these syllables barely cohere, tumbling out of a blind fumble in his throat. "S-s--"

"Don't tell me to stop." Oikawa's lips are close enough to flutter against Kageyama's trapped erection, against the wet spot he's sucked into the underwear that traps it. "Look how hard you are now, but you'll still pretend you want me to stop?”

"I want," Kageyama blurts, and he bites back on the words, catches his own lip in his teeth to stop the shameful rush--but it's too late, Oikawa's smile is quick and tender and cruel, his thumbs digging in past the point of pain, an implicit but undeniable command.

"Tell me."

"Hands," Kageyama whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut to the expression blooming on Oikawa's face. "Your hands."

Against the dark backs of his eyelids Kageyama can still picture them with perfect clarity: the map of tendons and the pale trace of the veins beneath his skin, the neat trim of Oikawa's nails and their impeccable cuticles; his long, impossibly strong fingers and where their calluses should be but aren't anymore, the way their scrape should feel against his cheek, his thighs, his throat. Oikawa's answering laugh is soft, softer than the rest of him, even his too-smooth fingertips. "You really haven't changed," he's saying, sounding both annoyed and fond at the same time. The pressure of his thumbs relents but they're tracing circles now, not light enough to be ticklish but too light for his nerves to relax, and he wants to look, he wants to watch Oikawa's hands move against his skin, but it's so difficult to look.

As expected, Oikawa is staring right at his face, lips still quirked, almost bemused. "You really want this," he declares, and his palm slides over Kageyama's hip, slender fingers skimming his waist, and then he cups Kageyama's crotch and squeezes, just once. The warmth spreads up Kageyama's spine, through his entire body until it feels like too much for his skin to contain, like he might split open and spill all over this anonymous room. Oikawa rises from his knees, stands at full height and takes him in hand again, presses his next words against the line of Kageyama's jaw. "Is this a fantasy of yours? You want it so badly you're already--"

"Please," Kageyama says, and shuts his eyes again before the moisture spills. Oikawa's lips are brushing his earlobe, the crest of his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and it's all he can say, it's all he's ever been able to say. "Yes. Please."

"Good," Oikawa murmurs, and he's pressing in again, scrubbing his palm in hard circles, too rough, just right. "Maybe I haven't changed either." His fingers are a warm curl against Kageyama's abdomen, sliding under the waistband of his briefs, hanging there in unbearable stasis--"Maybe," he huffs, hot against Kageyama's mouth, "I still just want to crush my useless, adorable kouhai."

Kageyama moans, but the sound is muffled by Oikawa's own mouth, by Oikawa's tongue slipping between his lips so easily, wet and hot and demanding. This isn't right but even in Kageyama's head he can barely formulate a question, so he doesn't dare to break the contact, not with Oikawa's fingers finally wrapped around his cock, the heat and the smell of him everywhere, his free hand scraping cool fingernails under Kageyama's shirt.

Kageyama lets the wall take his weight and sinks into it, the friction, the noise of his own pulse and the impossible slide of Oikawa's mouth against his own. He tastes like the mints from the lounge, generic and playful as his cologne, but Oikawa's grip is too tight, the jerk of his wrist like something resentful, and his tongue fucks with no trace of coy affectation. His teeth sink into Kageyama's lip and they don't break the skin but it hurts, a dull throb in counterpoint to the throb in his cock, and afterward Oikawa laps at the sore spot, and smiles against it, and he says, "You're even easier than I expected, Tobio-chan."

When Kageyama comes it's more like blunt force trauma than an orgasm. He's barely conscious when Oikawa pulls back to show him, to draw one slick finger over his lips so that he has to taste himself on Oikawa's hand, so that he blacks out with bitterness in his mouth, and a lingering trace of mint.



His wallet's long gone when he wakes, but his mobile's still next to his hand, blinking with unidentified texts. And he's never expected anything else, so it's neither a disappointment nor a surprise that there's an attachment, and the frame shows just enough to leave no trace of doubt, while Oikawa's own face is obscured. Some gentlemen at the lounge paid me an advance on this photo, it reads, but I think I'll keep this one for myself, Tobio-chan, since you tip so well. Must be a popular guy at the office! Guess you're still doing your thing. xx. (＾∀＾)b⌒☆

Re: FILL: "service ace" (oikage, dubcon)

[(Anonymous)]

Hello, this is the most wonderful, perfect thing in the world. Thank you.

Re: FILL: "service ace" (oikage, dubcon)

[(Anonymous)]

HOLY FUCK THIS IS PERFECT