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“Shh.”
Oikawa’s breath tickles at Tobio’s ear, the warmth of his lips as they brush at the strained clench of Tobio’s jaw soft, yet warning. His hands practically burn as they caress Tobio’s skin from underneath the thick wool blanket draped over their laps. The motions are invisible to the eye, but impossibly conspicuous to Tobio’s frayed nerves.
Tobio’s wedged between the window and Oikawa, who’s boxed him in from the aisle seat. His flushed cheek presses against the glass. Every exhalation that escapes his spit-slick lips fogs up the tempered plate, ice cold in contrast to the heat of the fingers slipping in and out from between his quivering thighs.
He ventures a glance away from his flushed expression peering back from the window, desperate and wanton. When their eyes lock, Oikawa’s gaze glimmers a fiery amber against the technicolor haze of the Tokyo night that seeps in through the windowpanes, infiltrating the metal husk of their tour bus.
“Shh,” Oikawa whispers again, his mouth curled into a devious smile.
For a second, all Tobio can focus on is the sight of Oikawa’s tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip— but then Oikawa’s slamming his fingers back into Tobio’s hole and the younger’s vision nearly whites out completely.
A waterlogged cry threatens to rip itself loose from Tobio’s throat as Oikawa works his fingers in and out of him from under the blanket, stimulating him ruthlessly.
“O-Oikawa-san,” Tobio tries, clamping down around the older man’s fingers. His hands are shaking, clutched around the top of the blanket to keep it tented high enough to obscure the frantic movement underneath; but even so, the rhythmic rise and fall of Oikawa’s wrist remains barely perceptible, each motion coincident with the blunt pressure Tobio can feel but can’t see as Oikawa finger-fucks him open and loose.
Oikawa coos softly into his ear, nibbling at his lobe. His right hand continues to move, stretching Tobio out relentlessly with scissoring motions. “You’re clenching down more than usual, baby.”
“Sh-Shut up,” Tobio hisses back, but there’s hardly any venom to it. Oikawa’s low timbre combined with the wet, squelching sounds of lubricant being worked in and out of him have Tobio both helplessly turned on and simultaneously terrified. “Don’t say anything like— fuck!”
Another slick thrust of Oikawa’s hand and fingers are jamming hard into that sweet spot. Just like that, the admonition dissolves into thin air.
Tobio drops one side of the blanket and slams a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan so loud it has the potential to wake the entire bus. Just in time. For a second he thinks his heart might work itself into overexertion from all the adrenaline pumping through his veins; Oikawa slows down a little, but doesn’t stop.
“Hold on,” he tries, biting down against the meat of his palm. He can’t sense any movement from the seats ahead nor can he hear anything above the sounds of traffic outside that would suggest someone coming back to check, but still. “O-Oikawa-san…”
“Hm?” Oikawa’s fingers slide halfway out and pause. The older man’s mouth presses hot kisses against Tobio’s neck, teeth nibbling at his jugular and then sliding up to tug at his ear lobe. “What is it?”
Tobio helplessly wets his lips. “Don’t hit it there, otherwise, I’ll… I’ll…”
The words begin to fail him just as Oikawa begins sliding his fingers back in. Tobio silently keens, tilting his head back as those long digits rub against his prostate, then start to curl.
Oikawa gives him a cunning smile. “You always like it when I hit this spot, right?”
He punctuates the question by grinding slowly at that sensitive bundle of nerves. Tobio gasps, then bites down hard on his lower lip.
Oikawa’s eyes darken as they rake over Tobio’s face: red, flushed, consumed with pleasure. His gaze stops at Tobio’s mouth. Another agonizing press of fingertips over that sweet spot.
Tobio’s eyes roll back into his head. Oh god oh god oh god—
“I know,” Oikawa whispers, and begins to draw his hand back, then slides his fingers back in, hitting it dead-on. “I know how much you love it.”
“P-Please,” Tobio manages, bucking up against Oikawa’s hand, “I need…”
“What do you need?”
Oikawa reaches his left hand under the blanket to wrench Tobio’s thighs open again, his thumb digging into the muscle of his legs. For good measure, Oikawa pulls Tobio’s shorts further down from where they’re bunching up just over his knees.
“Keep your legs spread for me, Tobio.”
Go fuck yourself, Tobio wants to say, except his traitorous body complies immediately. He makes a quiet, desperate noise for only Oikawa to hear then spreads his legs as much as he possibly can in the confined space of their row.
A buck of his hips, followed by a wordless plea: keep going, please, please, I need it.
The bastard smirks and leans forward for an open-mouthed kiss, slipping his tongue into Tobio’s mouth while his fingers rub at his rim, coating his skin with lube. They plunge back in, thrusting at an even pace. Tobio sucks on Oikawa’s tongue desperately, meeting every surge of the older man’s hands with frantic rolling of his hips.
Tobio breaks away just as Oikawa finds his prostate again, hitting it with each push of his fingers. Oikawa shifts and kisses at his neck, lips practically searing.
“I’m close,” Tobio whispers, a feverish staccato, eyes fluttering half-shut. “I’m— so—”
“Is anyone awake back there?”
Tobio’s eyes fly open and his mouth snaps shut. The haze of pleasure melts away and panic sets in place at the unmistakable sound of footsteps pacing toward the back of the bus.
Back toward their row.
Oikawa reaches over with his free hand, pulling Tobio in to lean his head into the crook of his neck. “You’re sleeping.”
“I’m—?”
“Sleeping,” repeats Oikawa, and turns toward the aisle to chime out, “Tetsu-chan!”
Tobio obeys just in time for Kuroo to approach their row. He ends up stopping two benches away, right near the closest, occupied seats— third-to-the-last, where Suna Rintarou and Miya Atsumu are still out like a light. From behind his fluttering lashes, Tobio glimpses Miya’s platinum blonde hair, then the grey stripes of Kuroo’s suit.
“Oikawa,” Tobio hears Kuroo greet in response. His voice is quiet and low, a bit tired. “You doing okay back there?”
Tobio shuts his eyes tight and tries to swallow down the breathless gasps for air, the rapid thrumming of his heart against his ribs.
Oikawa laughs softly. “Never better, actually.”
“Okay, good.” Kuroo seems to take the dismissal in stride. “I was just talking to the driver, and it looks like…”
The man continues to talk, explaining something about a road closure, or construction, or something that explains why they’ve been stuck in the same stretch of the highway for the past hour. But the words are muddling together and floating in one ear and out the other as Oikawa’s hand begins to move once more.
You wouldn’t fucking dare, Tobio thinks.
Except this is Oikawa Tooru, and of course he would. The man’s fingers slide innocently away from Tobio’s waistband, the touch gentle and chaste, before settling back over the top of his thigh.
“… if that’s okay?” Kuroo asks.
Tobio makes a quiet sound under his breath and nudges Oikawa in the side with his elbow.
Oikawa hums. “I think we can bear with it.”
The older man begins to rub slow circles over the thick, corded muscle beneath his fingertips, the remnants of lubricant leaving damp prints against feverish skin. Tobio stamps down a whimper building at the back of his throat as Kuroo continues on about the hotel, and tomorrow’s schedule, and the next match, and something or other. It’s the only distraction he has from the throbbing sensation between his legs.
“…It looks like it might be another half an hour until we make it back to the hotel,” Kuroo concludes just as Oikawa wraps his hand around the base of Tobio’s neglected erection. Tobio’s eyes nearly fly open.
“Oh, it’s no problem,” Oikawa replies smoothly. At an excruciatingly slow pace, he moves his hand up in a single stroke that has Tobio’s knees shaking, legs spreading even wider. “I’ve been resting on and off, anyway.”
Even with his eyes closed Tobio can picture Oikawa’s devious smile, the way he licks his lips as he releases Tobio’s cock. His palm slides lower.
“Good. I’m glad you and the others were at least able to use the time to rest.” Kuroo pauses, just as Oikawa’s finger brushes teasingly over Tobio’s rim. There’s a sharp intake of breath— from whom, Tobio isn’t even sure. “Oh, you’re sitting with Kageyama?”
Tobio pulls the edge of the blanket up, as if Kuroo might somehow see through the darkness and past the layers of bunched up fabric and clothing to zero in on Oikawa’s hand pushing into Tobio’s sex.
“Mhm,” Oikawa hums and replies something that Tobio can’t quite hear, not with what Oikawa’s doing between his legs.
“That’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?” Oikawa asks. His hand pulls away just to rub lubricant over Tobio’s rim, torturously slow. Presses a finger against him, waits as Tobio twitches, clamping down over nothing. Repositions against his entrance again, and this time slips in just an inch— then retracts, rubbing Tobio between the legs.
Oikawa stops completely when Tobio bucks his hips forward, urgent and desperate. He waits until Tobio goes still again, as if to discipline him.
“Tobio-chan insisted on sitting next to me, you know,” Oikawa continues. And his two fingers begin to move again, breaching the younger steadily, then sinking deeper and deeper before plunging up to the knuckle.
Tobio swallows down an obscene sound and quivers helplessly under his senpai’s touch.
Oikawa croons, clearly pleased. “He was so upset we weren’t on the same team this time around, so he hounded me, begged me to spend some time with him. But then he went and fell asleep as soon as we pulled out of the parking lot.”
Tobio bites down on the inside of his cheek. He’s breathing through the urge to open his mouth and bark back at Oikawa— you’re the one who cornered me after the match— when Oikawa pulls out and then rams his fingers back in.
Fuck!
Stars burst from behind the darks of his eyelids. Tobio ducks his head down just enough to capture the collar of his hoodie in between his teeth and then bites down as hard as he can to keep himself from interrupting Kuroo’s response with a scream of pleasure.
“— you’re sure that’s not wishful thinking, Oikawa?”
“It’s true, it’s true! You know Tobio-chan still watches all my matches, right?”
Another thrust, another stifled moan. Spit’s dripping down the grey fabric wedged in Tobio’s mouth, darkened from moisture.
“He records them even though he doesn’t understand a lick of Spanish. Isn’t that sweet?”
Kuroo’s saying something else now, maybe about the match, or about—
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tobio wants to choke out as Oikawa shifts a little, making like he’s trying to adjust into a more comfortable position. But in actuality he’s only moving to disguise how he’s repositioning his hand, making it so that the heel’s pressed against Tobio’s perineum.
His fingers straighten as they fuck into Tobio’s wet heat, then curl once deep inside, languid, as if savoring the tortured gasps for air Tobio takes against Oikawa’s neck.
It’s a steady but aggravatingly slow rhythm, all the measured tenacity Oikawa brings to the court with those inhumanely perfect hands now devoted solely to carving out his own shape between Tobio’s quivering legs: making sure he gets his fingers as deep inside of Tobio as possible, then making sure that Tobio feels every inch of their length as they move in and out of that tight ring of muscle, spilling lubricant over the fabric of Tobio’s athletic shorts that’ve pooled uselessly around his aching calves.
“A-Ah… Ah…”
His sounds are audible but subsumed by Oikawa and Kuroo’s idle conversation about who knows what. Tobio’s focusing his entire being on keeping quiet as Oikawa stimulates him mercilessly, fucking him open on the bench like he’s some toy. Meanwhile Oikawa’s chirping away with Kuroo, not paying Tobio any attention outside of the rhythmic motions of his cruel hands.
“You know, Tobio-chan used to be my kouhai in middle school?” Oikawa says pleasantly while he slams his fingers back into Tobio, pressing right into his prostate. Tobio bites down hard, his jaw clenching so hard it turns white. Oikawa’s pace quickens, each thrust of his fingers coinciding with every other word: “He used to follow me around everywhere, begging me to teach him what I knew. He was so despicably cute.”
“Cute?” repeats Kuroo. “I was under the impression you two didn’t get along.”
“Oh, nonsense.” By the sound of his voice and the shape of those syllables molded by curled lips, Oikawa’s smile must be utterly euphoric. “Tobio and I are very close.”
Quiet laughter from the two men, enough of a cover for Tobio to let a heated moan slip from under his breath as Oikawa fucks him faster in shallow but firm motions. The bench squeaks under them in time with the short, stunted thrusts of Tobio’s hips, still obscured by the blanket.
It feels so good, even though it’s obscene, even though it’s filthy and borderline criminal. Tobio wants nothing more than to cry out loud, to lay back and pull Oikawa over him, to lock his legs around the man’s waist. When he’s direct about it Oikawa can never resist, no matter how much he loves it when Tobio begs. He needs Oikawa to fuck him for real. Needs something much bigger than Oikawa’s fingers. He needs— he needs—
There’s a remark from Kuroo that Tobio can’t quite make out, and the thought occurs to him that—fuck it all, Kuroo can watch Oikawa fuck him, hell, Kuroo can even film them going at it if he wants to. He’s leagues past the point of caring about anyone or anything beyond Oikawa Tooru filling him up.
Tobio groans with each push of Oikawa’s fingers inside of him. He’d throw off the blanket and lie on his back, opening up like a flower ripe for picking; one hand fisted around Oikawa’s collar, the other yanking the older man’s joggers down below his thighs, enough to free his cock. Picturing Oikawa naked from the waist below, the proof of his arousal laid bare—proof that Tobio’s driving Oikawa crazy just as much as Oikawa’s wrecking him— has Tobio drooling into the already-soaked fabric of his shirt.
He’s so wet down there. Oikawa could just slide it right in.
Tobio wouldn’t last long, might even cum on the first thrust. But his partner’s ruthless. Oikawa would fuck Tobio hard, bite into his neck, leave handprint-shaped bruises on Tobio’s hips; would rut into him without regard for Tobio’s shot nerves lit on fire by overstimulation.
God, please, Tobio wants to beg. The desire has him so far gone that the only way to keep himself from acting on the urge is to ball his fists over the blanket, digging his nails into the meat of his palms.
Another thrust, Oikawa’s fingers grinding against his prostate, and a barely smothered moan as Tobio’s eyes roll back into his head, made delirious and stupid from pleasure.
Kuroo’s laughing at something Oikawa said. Beneath the cover, Oikawa whispers under his breath, an authoritative reminder in that deep voice that seldom ever comes out when they’re not on the court—“Keep your legs spread, Tobio”— timed with the slam of his fingers into Tobio’s prostate.
“Ah!”
The sound’s stifled too late, choked down as Tobio hides his face into the side of Oikawa’s neck. Tobio’s eyes flicker open for just a millisecond, enough to glimpse Kuroo’s surprised expression locking onto his before they flutter back shut.
It’s quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop. Then horrified realization cuts in, and Tobio’s heartbeat is ramming against his ribs and pounding in his ears.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“O-Oikawa,” Kuroo tries slowly. “Was that..?”
Tobio clenches his eyes shut and buries his face back into Oikawa’s neck.
“Oh, poor baby.” Oikawa coos, still thrusting his fingers mercilessly. There’s a wet squelching sound from between Tobio’s legs that surely must be audible, along with another sharp breath from Tobio as he bucks into Oikawa’s touch. “Sorry, Tetsu-chan. I think Tobio’s having a nightmare.”
“… A nightmare? Is he okay?”
No, Tobio thinks, half-delirious. Right on cue, Oikawa gives another deep thrust, sending Tobio’s vision exploding into a kaleidoscope of unnatural colors. A strangled moan escapes from behind clenched teeth, a noise not unlike one an animal would make.
Kuroo makes a concerned sound, but Oikawa’s whispering disingenuous consolations— is he going to be all right or— yes, he’s just— are you— no need—
Tobio bites down hard on his lip again, feeling the coppery-salty taste of his own blood sting from broken flesh as Oikawa continues thrusting into him. He’s still smothering his needy sounds, trying to rub up and get some friction against Oikawa’s forearm for his weeping erection. Only when Oikawa presses their lips together and Tobio’s eyes flutter open does he realize Kuroo’s gone.
“There, there,” Oikawa hums, reaching over with his left hand to pet Tobio’s hair, his touch so gentle it’s as if it’s disembodied from the man’s other hand that continues to work in and out of Tobio’s soaked hole, inundating Tobio’s senses with unrelenting pleasure. “Don’t cry, Tobio-chan. Shh. Oikawa-san’s here.”
“O-Oikawa-san,” Tobio whimpers into Oikawa’s neck. He’s so close. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, Tobio.” Oikawa presses his lips discreetly against Tobio’s temple and continues fingering him hard and fast. “I know what you need.”
Tobio lets out a muffled, watery cry as Oikawa grinds hard into that electrifying bundle of nerves while he simultaneously reaches over and wraps his free hand around Tobio’s cock. Tobio’s toes curl tight against his white trainers, his back arching far off the seat as Oikawa massages against his prostate and jerks him off with full strokes, wringing every spark of pleasure from him.
Two more thrusts in, out, in, out—then a strong plunge forward and Tobio’s clamping down on Oikawa, whining into the mouthful of his shirt with a mess of saliva and tears dripping down his chin—and cumming so hard his vision nearly whites out from stars bursting in the backs of his eyes.
Oikawa hums. The tone of his voice is sickeningly sweet, nearly fond.
“Really, Tobio-chan. You’re so hopeless without me.”