Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4202067.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Hinata_Shouyou/Oikawa_Tooru, Kageyama_Tobio/Oikawa_Tooru, Iwaizumi
      Hajime/Kageyama_Tobio, Kozume_Kenma/Kuroo_Tetsurou
  Additional Tags:
      let_us_never_speak_of_this_again
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-05 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 5940
****** the midnight channel ******
by eris
Summary
     morally bankrupt kink meme fills.
***** service ace (oikawa/kageyama) *****
Chapter Notes
     prompt: Kageyama is a clueless salaryman having a drink, Oikawa is a
     prostitute who has him for an easy target.
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 its
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 the soundtrack and
muffles his thoughts with its 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 at
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 something 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, 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 says, 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 see, he wants to watch Oikawa's hands move
against his skin, but it's so difficult to make himself 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 like blunt force trauma. 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⌒☆
***** status effect: charm (oikawa/hinata) *****
Chapter Notes
     prompt: OiHina NonCon.
     (basically awful on every level please consider yourself warned.)
Hinata's wrists are raw from a fruitless struggle with the manacles. He's given
up on them for now, hanging limp with exhaustion against the cold stone wall,
but the fierce glare of light has not yet left his eyes.

"You have such faith in him," the Demon King observes, with a flickering half-
smile. His curiosity is flippant but his nails are razor-sharp against Hinata's
throat, pressed like a laughably chaste kiss to the throb of his pulse--too
light to break the skin but hard enough to cut him should he so much as twitch
a muscle. When he leans in close his lips brush hot against the shell of
Hinata's ear, perversely intimate. "I can't see why, to be honest."

Hinata scowls, but he can't lean away, so he snaps out his words like he could
somehow wound with sounds alone. He can't. His sword lies on the ground mere
paces away, a constant mocking reminder of his powerlessness. "Shut the hell up
already. We are going to take you down."

Even now, Oikawa's laughter is too light, a sickly-sweet carillon that echoes
through the shadowed hall until it's nothing but an awful, shapeless resonance
in the pit of Hinata's stomach. "See!" he crows, rocking back on his heels to
take in the full extent of Hinata's weakened, bruising body. His eyes are
shining with an unmistakeable delight. "You keep saying 'we', like you're so
sure he's coming for you!"

"He'll come," Hinata says, and he spits, but Oikawa dodges it easily enough. He
drags his nail from Hinata's neck and up the line of his jaw, across his chin,
until the soft pad of his finger is pressed to Hinata's bottom lip. Hinata's
muscles are trembling, his hair stuck to his brow by a thin sheen of sweat.

"Did he ever tell you?" Oikawa wonders aloud, head cocked now to an exaggerated
angle. His horns catch the torchlight and gleam like a brittle obsidian grin.
"That Tobio, he used to serve me."

Hinata flinches, but Oikawa's finger is insistent, pushing between his lips to
the wall of his teeth, so that Hinata can't answer without admitting it into
his mouth. Oikawa only hums and says, "I thought not. He lead one of my armies
back then, you see, only they turned against him, isn't that funny? Such a bad
leader that even demons couldn't stand him. And yet--"

When Hinata tries to shout a protest, purely instinct, Oikawa's fingers slip in
at the first opportunity: two of them pressing heavy on Hinata's tongue until
he gags with it. Saliva drips over Oikawa's knuckles and spills down Hinata's
chin, cooling rapidly in the chilly air until it's just a sticky residue on his
face. Oikawa is snickering all the while, a susurrant and vile sound, like the
soft hissing deaths of moths immolating in the firelight. Hinata starts to pull
at the chains again but he doesn't dare bite down, not with the threat of
laceration still implicit in Oikawa's leer of challenge. Oikawa presses down
again, until Hinata's throat is spasming and hot tears are prickling in his
eyes, but the pressure relents just moments before he vomits, and Oikawa
finally pulls back, his posture wholly pleased.

"So this is a hero," he says, slowly shaking his head. "Doesn't look like much
to me."

Hinata musters the dregs of his energy and aims a kick at Oikawa's side, but
Oikawa only catches his ankle and holds it, tight enough to hurt even through
his breeches. The chains screech above while Hinata fails to twist away, and
then Oikawa is pushing forward again with a very thoughtful hum, folding
Hinata's knee up to his chest so that it's suddenly difficult for him to
breathe under the pressure. His other palm slides over the back of Hinata's
thigh until it's cupping his ass, and he can watch the precise moment the
realisation hits because all the blood drains from Hinata's face, and in that
breathless, suspended moment, he gives one slow, deliberate squeeze.

"S-stop, what are--don't," Hinata stutters wildly, thrashing at the vertex of
humiliation and horror, and Oikawa makes a distasteful face but still there is
a sound of tearing leather, sliced away, leaving Hinata's lower half newly
exposed to the cold air and Oikawa's wandering hands.

"This is really too prosaic," Oikawa sighs, even as Hinata's body jerks away
from the probing pads of his fingers. "But surely our dear Tobio wouldn't miss
it for the world. Where is he now, do you think? Not yet summoned by the sheer
power of your belief?"

Hinata shrinks back where he can but the energy drains from him fast, until
he's just a twitching mess of limbs beneath the Demon King's manipulations. "It
doesn't matter what you do to me," he growls through gritted teeth, while
Oikawa looses his own fastenings, slow, like a mockery of someone more coy.
Hinata's pulse is light and erratic through his overheating skin, and yet he's
glaring, somehow he's still glaring. "We're gonna crush you anyway."

"You know," Oikawa says, and Oikawa's hands are spreading Hinata's legs now,
his body is smothering Hinata's body, pushing him back to the wall, close
enough the words are a gust of air against Hinata's slackening mouth. "--you
heroes really piss me off."

This is all the warning Hinata's given before Oikawa's cock is pushing into
him, and it's far too much, too sudden. Hinata's look of grim determination
breaks apart, all the pieces left just shards of shock and pain. The tears are
spilling over, running freely down his cheeks, but Oikawa's moan is low and
satisfied in his ear. For a long moment after they are still, sweat-slick and
panting in the near-darkness, Oikawa savouring the shudder that sweeps down
Hinata's spine and Hinata struggling to keep silent. Then Oikawa pulls back
just slightly in a very shallow thrust, but still Hinata chokes, a damp and
ragged sob torn from somewhere deep inside his chest, and Oikawa's lips curl in
a smile like dripping treacle.

"Does it hurt?" he says, curiously, but Hinata bites his own lip so hard his
mouth is a dark smear of blood. Oikawa makes a tutting sound and leans forward
to lick at it, pressing his own smile against Hinata's straining grimace. "I
could make it feel nice instead. Do you want it to feel nice?"

Hinata bares his teeth in a pinkish snarl, but his eyes are still wet and his
whole body shakes with it. Oikawa's grip tightens on his thighs but he doesn't
thrust again, not yet. Instead he says, "Have you done this before then? Has he
gone this far with you yet? ...No?"

Hinata seems to rally some degree of detachment at the words and only stares
resolutely forward, but his fingernails are still digging white crescents into
his palms where they're bound above his head. Oikawa huffs out a breath against
his cheek and just keeps talking, even while his cock is twitching deep inside
Hinata. "If I make it feel good, you can pretend it's Tobio that's fucking you.
I mean, since he won't actually. Wouldn't that be nice? I can be generous too."

The hitching noise that finally breaks free of Hinata's mouth is one of abject
misery, but when Oikawa's mouth brushes at his ear again a nonsensical whisper
slithers from his lips into Hinata's brain, an insidious and writhing thing
that seems to spread through his entire body like a creeping disease, and
within moments the tension is easing from Hinata's brow, replaced instead with
a shiver of warm confusion, a flush of something like fever leaving him dazed
by the leap of his own pulse beneath Oikawa's hands.

Only then does Oikawa move, in tandem with a guilty moan that rings out into
the silent hall and echoes all around them. Hinata legs are wrapping around
Oikawa's waist and Oikawa is fucking into him with a languid rhythm, lapping
again at his mouth for the last beaded drops of blood and the salt of sweat in
the dip below his nose. Hinata's stare is glazed, his tongue sluggishly pliant
between them, and when he moans again, a helpless, wanton sound in the humid
air they share, finally Oikawa reaches down to palm Hinata's cock where it's
suddenly hard and leaking, throbbing in his grip.

"Good," Oikawa whispers, stroking him once and nodding when his eyes flutter
shut from the sensation. "You look much better like this. I wonder what our
dear Tobio would say if he could see you now," and he punctuates each word with
another stroke, until Hinata is whimpering, weakly thrusting his hips up into
Oikawa's fist and falling back onto his cock when his muscles give. Oikawa
laughs, saccharine as ever, but Hinata tries to swallow the sound, tongue
colliding with Oikawa's tongue and a desperate, keening noise.

Oikawa pulls away from the kiss and nips at Hinata's swollen lips like a
playful lover might. "Just like that," he murmurs, "yes. All spread out for me
and crying like a needy little slut."

Hinata's eyes look wild and lost, but his body's jerking urgently, chasing
after Oikawa's heat, so Oikawa gives it to him, pitching forward into a
mounting, frantic pace. Hinata's ankles lock around his waist but his body's
small enough Oikawa bears the weight with ease, and for a long time the only
sound is the rattling of the chains, their grunts of effort, the Demon King's
cloak flapping at his thighs while he fucks Hinata to a shuddering, aching
peak. And then he leaves him there, panting and straining uselessly toward
Oikawa's hand while Oikawa waits with coyly lowered lashes for Hinata to ask
nicely.

"Well well," he says, against Hinata's jaw, and suddenly his voice drops low,
gruff and clipped and terribly familiar. "What is it? What the hell do you
want?"

Hinata's eyes squeeze shut, moisture spilling from their corners, but his red
mouth shapes a strangled groan, and then he rasps out: "please--"

"Speak up, dumbass," Oikawa whispers, punctuating it with a single jerk of his
hips, and Hinata can't form the word again but cries out all the same, a
broken, meaningless noise as he comes all over Oikawa's hand.

Later, when he's limp against the wall and his vision's still a warmly swimming
blur, Oikawa draws a fingertip across his bound wrists where they've begun to
bleed from friction, and shakes his head again, lips a shiny moue. "You should
be more careful, Hero-chan. We don't want Tobio to think I don't know how to
treat a guest. That is, if he's coming."

Hinata's brow pinches into the faintest frown, and his mouth falls open, but he
can't say anything at all.

Oikawa only shrugs, turning on his heel and marching back toward his towering
stone throne. "He is rather late. So rude."
***** turnabout (kageyama/iwaizumi, oikawa) *****
Chapter Notes
     prompt: kageyama acts on his huge crush on iwaizumi, knowing oikawa
     is watching.
     (underage warning)
Iwaizumi makes another choked off sound at the back of his throat and his whole
body shudders so hard Kageyama can feel it in his lips, resonating through that
single point of contact. It's probably Kageyama's name; he keeps trying to say
Kageyama's name, but when he's actually managed (only twice) the final syllable
tapered off into a breathless groan. It's kind of nice to hear it like that,
though: kind of helpless and shaky, no lilting honourifics. Iwaizumi doesn't
talk much at all and so far he doesn't touch back either, but he makes a lot
more noise than Oikawa ever has.
Kageyama pulls back with a wet slurping noise, just far enough that a
glistening string of spit still briefly links his chin with Iwaizumi's
straining cock. "Senpai," he says slowly, lifting his eyes to Iwaizumi's dark
flushed face. "It's fine, you can--"
Iwaizumi's eyelids snap open and his pupils contract with alarm, so Kageyama
stops talking, just in case Iwaizumi tries to stop him again. Instead he licks
his swollen lips and holds Iwaizumi's gaze while he slowly leans forward again,
then presses the tip of his tongue to the head of Iwaizumi's cock, just a brief
flicker of pressure against the bitter bead of moisture at his slit. Iwaizumi's
mouth drops open, then closes again, his jaw working uselessly while his naked
thighs shiver from the effort of holding himself back. He still looks a little
lost, a permanent frown pinching his brow, like he can't piece together the
sequence of events that lead him to this moment--but he likes it too much to
stop. Kageyama knows he likes it because Kageyama's very, very good at this.
Kageyama hums in lieu of finishing his sentence, closing his wet mouth around
Iwaizumi again while he watches his eyes squeezing shut. The vibration should
feel very good, and it's important that Iwaizumi feels good. Iwaizumi is biting
his lip so hard it's gone white between his teeth and Kageyama likes that, too.
He likes the way Iwaizumi's cock is twitching in his mouth so he takes the
whole thing in, pushes forward until his nose is buried in a curly thatch of
hair and the back of his throat is fluttering a little desperately. His eyes
begin to burn but he doesn't gag--he's good at this, he hardly gags at all
anymore, not even when Iwaizumi's hips jerk forward hard enough to hurt.
Kageyama rolls with it, hollows his cheeks and sucks until he can feel the
moment Iwaizumi gives in, and then he takes Iwaizumi's clenched fist and places
it on top of his own head, so Iwaizumi can pull on Kageyama's hair when he
begins to thrust on instinct, blind and erratic, fucking into Kageyama's
waiting mouth.
He could tell from the flustered protests that Iwaizumi's never done this
before, never had this done to him before, that for whatever labyrinth of
private reasons Oikawa's never dared to lay a finger on his precious Iwa-chan
before--so it hardly takes any time at all before it's over. Iwaizumi's moan
stutters and skips into a rising pitch and then his hands are suddenly too
tight, he's pulling hard enough that Kageyama can't help but wince in pain, but
it's fine because right after that he goes still and he comes in a hot rush
onto Kageyama's tongue.
Kageyama swallows it all and he doesn't cough, because Oikawa always hated it
when he coughed. Afterward, when Iwaizumi is leaning back against the wall too
limp and dazed to do anything about it, Kageyama licks his dick clean too,
gently, mindful of its sensitivity. Iwaizumi's cheeks are red and his eyes are
a little damp and he looks so much softer than he ever has at practice, sort of
exposed and tender and unmoored, and Kageyama's the only one who's seen him
like this, even Oikawa's never seen his eyes so dark and vulnerable like this.
Kageyama waits with his hands folded meekly in his lap while Iwaizumi tucks
himself back into his pants with visibly trembling hands. Iwaizumi clearly has
no idea what to do or say but it's fine. Kageyama's only half-hard and this
wasn't about him, anyway. It's perfect because somewhere in the distance the
bell begins to sound, so that Kageyama can stand up all in a rush and brush off
his own slacks and bow. "I'm sorry!" he says, and the heat at his cheeks is
real enough. "Iwaizumi-san! I'll be late to class--" and before Iwaizumi can
even respond he's turned around and he's turned the corner and this is what
Iwaizumi needs, so it's fine.
It's no surprise when he bumps into Oikawa. The surprise is that Oikawa doesn't
say a word. Oikawa stares at him, first at his tingling mouth and then at his
eyes and Kageyama can't even begin to decipher the expressions flickering
across Oikawa's face, but he steels himself and doesn't look away. He stares
right back until it's Oikawa who finally turns his head. When Oikawa brushes
past him, back toward tender flushed Iwaizumi, Oikawa's fists are spasming at
his sides, and his eyes are wet at the edges, and Kageyama very nearly smiles.
***** sticky (kuroo/kenma) *****
Chapter Notes
     prompt: Kuroo is more than a little eager when he watches Kenma eat
     the food that Kuroo himself made, but one day when Kenma spills
     [whatever your choice!] over his shorts it all goes down to hell.
Kuroo's no culinary genius, but he's picked up a few things here and there, and
for the most part it's all trial and error anyway. He's had a lot of summers to
experiment and he's mostly perfected the ratio of yoghurt to juice and how to
stagger the process so the fruit settles with even distribution. The trick to
popsicles, though, is that you have to freeze them twice: four to six hours in
the mould, then an extra half hour out of it, carefully wrapped, so they'll
hold their shape better when finally served.

"It's because you were impatient," Kuroo says, and watches with helpless
fascination while the mess dribbles down Kenma's knuckles, one enterprising
glob fast approaching a claim on his elbow. The shape of the popsicle's barely
recognisable in Kenma's hands and Kenma is losing the race to lap up the melt
before it all drips right off the stick. He's never been the type to bite in,
either; he takes the slow sucking approach, the unintentionally erotic ingenue
approach straight out of the movies--and it would be, except that he looks
wholly disinterested the entire time his tongue twists slow circles around the
tip, slides up the sides, sucks at the sticky residue left on his lips.

"It's hot," Kenma says, and his tongue darts a quick swipe between his spread
fingers, but he's not fast enough to catch a new droplet of peach cream that
lands, instead, on his tshirt.

"Gross," Kuroo agrees, and literally cannot look away from where it's seeping
into the cotton over Kenma's clavicle, probably forming a stain.

Kenma's going to complain, because they're in public, insofar as Kenma's back
garden veranda is public, but it really can't be helped. Kenma's making a small
grunt of annoyance in the back of his throat but the popsicle's only half gone,
and quite frankly the whole sordid affair is an assault on common decency.

"Let me get that," Kuroo offers, like a good citizen ought. Like a melting
popsicle's too much luggage for Kenma to carry.

"What," Kenma says, at exactly the same time Kuroo catches his forearm and
drags his tongue over one long sweet trail of residue down the pale inside of
his wrist. Kenma squirms against the grip and more stickiness spills over to
land on his stomach and lap, but Kuroo's not finished lapping into his palm
where the peach flavour's tempered by salt. "I wasn't done," Kenma protests
with what little half-assed outrage his body can muster, then adds, like an
afterthought, "that's disgusting."

"You're disgusting," Kuroo replies, through his soft slurping noises. "Stop
wiggling. I've got a hard-on."

Kenma freezes and says, "Why are you telling me that," and it's a good thing
Kuroo happens to find deadpan resignation very appealing, because he's already
on his knees and working his way down from Kenma's forearm to that seductive
peach slime melting into Kenma's stomach. The cotton is rough under his tongue,
a bit tart from the fruit, more damp now with his own spit than anything but
probably too thick for Kenma too feel it on his skin as more than warm
pressure. Kenma starts to shift around again and Kuroo can feel the abdominal
muscles working under his mouth while he sucks at the fabric. It makes his own
dick twitch a little in his pants, which is all pretty nice, but there's still
a scatter of popsicle drops on Kenma's shorts, and Kuroo's thorough. It's one
of his best qualities. With his hands on either side of Kenma's thighs he can
hold his body still enough to get his tongue over the pinkish stain on Kenma's
crotch.

Kenma drops the sad remnants of popsicle into the grass and makes a flustered
little squawk, dirty hands hovering in the air near Kuroo's face like he's not
sure what else to do with them. "The neighbours will see you," Kenma hisses,
red-faced in the aftermath of his own involuntary noise. Kenma's scuffed knees
are shaking a little, probably more from mortification than Kuroo's prowess,
but it's all his own fault, Kuroo figures. He's been seduced.

"I am the neighbours," Kuroo points out, then starts mouthing the contours of
Kenma's dick.

It could be vengeance or an unintended consequence that Kenma's sticky spitty
hands both latch into Kuroo's hair, but it's not like he's having a good hair-
day anyway. He hollows his cheeks and slurps hard at the last of the peach
flavour, and cargo shorts are not a very good conductor for blowjob but Kenma's
small hands are tight in his hair, alternately pushing him away and pulling him
forward in fits. Kuroo slides his palms under Kenma's ass and laps at him,
sloppily, a cheerful hum in the back of his throat.

"Kuro," Kenma finally snaps, so Kuroo pulls back a bit, rests his face on
Kenma's skinny thigh and looks up from under his lashes. Kenma's lower lip is
swollen from where he's bitten down too hard, and there's a flush high on his
freckled cheeks, fully red ears. It's such a good look on him that Kuroo
spontaneously evolves a passionately dissenting opinion on the virtues of the
twice-frozen popsicle.

"Didn't want to waste it," Kuroo says, smiling crooked. "Want to come inside?"

It's an inveterate charm point that even half-hard in spit-sogged shorts, Kenma
completely ignores the double-entendre.
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