#under.tobio

Hot.

It’s far too hot.

For a moment you consider kicking off the layers of blankets weighing you down, yet the notion is immediately dismissed when the rigidness of your body becomes clearer to your sleep-ridden mind. At most you can feel your fingers and toes twitch just slightly, stuck laid out on your back buried under blankets with a perfect view of your door cracked open.

The door that begins to creak on its hinges, startling you even further out of your tired trance. The door that you swear you had shut nice and tight just before bed.

Long fingers emerge from the darkness, tracing along the edge of the polished wood, pushing it open little by little.

Tobio?

It couldn’t be, he’s over a thousand miles away and you haven’t spoken in months but the outline of the shadow emerging from behind the door is far too familiar to be anyone else.

His name sits at the tip of your tongue, ready to slip out. Yet you can’t, that invisible force keeping you from uttering the simplest of names. The scorching heat of being smothered by the layers of blankets only fueling the building panic coursing through your veins.

The figure emerges fully from the pitch black, the sliver of moonlight peaking through your curtains barely illuminating the stranger. You want to yell out, so desperately, too many words build in your chest. Yet your body still proves unforgivable, only allowing something akin to a pitiful squeak to escape from you.

Slowly the shadow of a man creeps across the room, the groan of your floorboards under his weight allowing you to have some idea of where he is in your room.

Run, scream, something, anything.

The thought pauses, for just a second, swearing that it really is him, your Tobio.

He hunches over you with jerking motions, it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. The sapphire of his eyes you’ve adored for so long are replaced by a strange mottled ruby, the sharp lines of his face crude, taunting you, it’s him but it’s not.

You can’t move, can’t speak, a prisoner of your bed, of your own body. A shadowy hand reaches towards you, a frigid palm settling against your cheek.

Tears well in your eyes, yet they don’t seem to spill, just as frozen in place like the rest of you.

His —It’s— mouth clicks open, a strangled groan tearing through the stale air.

You swear you hear your name buried in there, or maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you to keep some semblance of your sanity intact. Frozen fingers drag down your cheek, goosebumps erupting across your flesh.

“Nnn.” It’s all you can manage, a weak protest as those cold digits drag across your jaw, moving down to land on your throat. Replacing well manicured nails are gangly, sharp blackened ones, scraping over the cold sweat breaking out and drenching your body.

There’s a stronger twitch in your fingers, leaving you foolish enough to believe you’re breaking out from this horrific predicament. The hope snuffed the moment the freezing digits clamp down on your shoulder, nails tearing through the old, stolen Adlers practice shirt.

Stop.

Hot tears manage to spill, burn down your cheeks, your mind begging and begging your body to do something, anything, to escape from this horrifying moment. Tobio, Tobio, Tobio, his name becomes a prayer, a beacon of hope that he’ll somehow appear in place of this crude proxy.

Yet the nightmare only furthers as you feel a dip in your bed, a weight pressing against your side pushing you further into the swath of blankets. Only making bile rise in your throat and anxiety muddling your consciousness further.

“I-I’m ‘m ho-hom-e.” The demon croaks into your ear, deep and ragged just like Tobio would after a draining late practice. And for a moment an image of him flashes in your mind, once more taunting you than bringing a feeling of comfort.

No.

“M-Mis-sed you.” This is too cruel, your mind supplies, tears continuing to cloud your vision as you feel your cotton underwear drag down your hips, inching down almost painfully.

Again your brain supplies all the memories of moments like these, your beloved Tobio coming home after you’ve long fallen asleep, sneaking into bed and snaking his arms around you. His wandering hands bring warmth, filling your heart with love and adoration.

None of that is here in this moment, this terrifying caricature bastardizing what was a heartwarming ritual, pumping your veins with dread and most of all, a heart wrenching sadness.

And just like Tobio would, lips, though chapped and cold, skim along your cheek down to your jaw. They move as if whispering the sweet nothings you’d expect, caressing along your jaw lovingly.

Finally you're able to shut your eyes, yet there is no escaping from this monster, the frigid air surrounding him consumes you. He slots himself between your thighs, forcing them to fall apart and accommodate him. Your chest heaves and stutters with a sob as something blunt and impossibly hot prods at your bare cunt.

“Pretty-tt-tty.” Those cold hands slip under your shirt, one staying planted on your waist as the other crawls up to squeeze at your tits, sharp nails tapping and scraping at your sternum.

No prep, no warning as he impales you with his torrid cock, that same dry heat ripping through your body and practically negating the freezing air surrounding the two of you. It hurts, it should hurt, your mind once again begs your body to listen, to hate this sensation and this monster.

But it feels good, it feels too good as he burns at your inside, brands it’s, his cock against the twitching walls of your cunt, carving his place, his right to be there.

Your eyes flutter open, vision still blurred and ruby turns to sapphire back to ruby, flickering back and forth, but what do you care when you can pretend that it’s him. Without any thought your arms come to life and you throw them around broad, shadowy shoulders.

None of it’s right, not the way your hands splay against awfully cold, rippling muscles, or the feeling of his face nuzzling into your shoulder, ragged breaths and a clicking sound pouring into your ears.

It’s not him, each drag of it’s cock only solidifying that notion.

He’s not coming home, you whine at a particularly rough thrust.

You miss him, as sharp nails pierce your skin.

“L..ove...l-love yo-u.” The monster croaks again and your mind unconsciously supplies the response of love you more. The phrase escapes from your lips as something between a choked moan and a sob.

Somewhere between that final, ruthless, thrust and hot cum pouring into your cunt, your body shakes with a shameful orgasm, his name finally escaping your lips as darkness clouds your vision.

You jolt awake, the sunlight blinding you for a moment as you try to stretch away the stiffness in your joints. There’s a heat in your chest and cheeks as bits of your dream from last night invade your muddled, morning thoughts.

Pointedly you avoid the mirror of your vanity, too ashamed to even look at your own reflection, leaving you blissfully unaware of the bruises scattering your body for just a little longer.

It’s the best you can do, overwhelmed by the domineering presence he now holds. He had always been intimidating, with his distant looks and the cold way he held himself. But now before you is a man of crippling stature, a professional athelete, an Olympic athlete. 

The recognition in his eyes makes your heart pound as he turns away from the reporters, stepping towards you with a rigid tension in his shoulders that was absent from just a few seconds ago.

“Y-You’re here.” There’s something complimentary about having someone so recognizable and powerful trip over his words at the mere sight of you. You try to ignore the whispers and glances around the two of you, realizing that calling out to him in such a public setting might’ve been a mistake.

“I’ve...I’ve been to a few of your other games.” The confession makes his eyes widen as he nods slowly, trying to wrap his head around the thought of you being so close yet so far without so much as a word. It may have been three years, but the break up still seemed to be an unhealed wound for him as well. 

“I’m going, good luck next year in the international leagues. You’ll do great.”  You turn on your heel, readying yourself to practically run, from both him and the lingering feelings that have eaten away at you. Nimble fingers are around your bicep before you can even blink, whipping your head to meet his eyes.

“I have something selfish to say.” His voice is low, as if he could possibly keep it a secret from the reporters closing in on the two of you.

“M-Maybe not here?”

“No. Here is fine,” he releases your arm, “please. Be mine again, let me be yours.” 

This hadn’t been your intention when you greeted him, this wasn’t what you expected. Just an awkward hello and goodbye and crying yourself to sleep. He wasn’t supposed to still want you, you weren’t supposed still want him.

“Tob- Kageyama, there’s a lot of p-people here.” You swallow harshly, trying to ignore a rather nasty glare from a girl wearing a shirt with Tobio’s name scrawled across.

“And?” He says it as if you’re in the midst of a casual conversation, not like he’s dropped a bomb on the walls you’ve built around your remaining feelings for him.

“How am I supposed to respond?” You sound exasperated, and a tinge of anger bites at you when he quirks his lip in the same way he always does when’s confused.

“Honestly.” It’s said as smooth as spreading butter on toast, and you can’t help but let out a dry chuckle.

“I...” I don’t want to, I can’t do that, I think it’s a bad idea, “I still love you.” 

He’s holding your hands, leaning towards you, the look in his eyes demanding all of your attention, commanding you to forget you’re in a stadium filled with thousands of people, that all the reporters and his teammates aren’t right there.

“I’m not letting you go again.” His lips are on yours before you can fully digest his words, before you could be bothered to even wonder about the schematics or the fact you defintely heard camera’s clicking and exclamations of fans.

All that matters is he’s all yours, again. 

There’s a curious glint in his eyes that spells out a certain doom for you. Something bouncing around in that round head of his head that can only be satiated by completing whatever inane idea that’s popped into it. 

“Thinkin’ a little too hard for a man in the middle of round three.” You manage to pant out, twisting around a little to see the thoughtful furrow of his brows. 

He plants a hand between your shoulder blades, silently commanding you keep your chest flush against the sheets. Skilled fingers trace over your spine, dragging along to trace over the sharp curve of your shoulder.

“How far can you bend?” The question comes out so soft you’re unsure if it’s meant for your ears, simply meant to be something for himself.

There’s some witty response in the back of your exhausted, fucked out mind, interrupted by another question that sends a rush down your spine and leaving you clenching around his thick cock.

“How far until you break?” It’s said in quiet reverence, perfectly maintained fingers continuing to dance along your heated skin, there’s a hitch in your breath, a rasp in his.

Whatever he’s thinking, it fills you with a curiosity that leaves you on edge, tinged with a. fear that leaves you unsure if you want to know just what taints his thoughts.

He pulls out, an involuntary whine falling from your lips as he twists you around until you land on your back, too spent to argue as you watch his little curiosities continue to grind away at the gears in his head.

“Tobio.” You whisper, hand rising to cup at his cheek, a little concerned at how hard he’s thinking.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He takes your hand, bringing the palm to his lips to settle a tender kiss before moving to grab at your wrist.

He begins to pull and pull, his other hand landing with his palm planting against your sternum and fingers splaying across your throat.

A question bubbles in the back of your mind, still unsure of what he’s trying to achieve until you feel it, your muscles, tendons and ligaments beginning to scream in protest.

There’s a muffled pop, then a numbness that precedes a sharp pain that bleeds through your shoulder and you’re sobbing reaches your ears before it registers in your mind.

“It hurts, it hurts.” You wail, your consciousness brought back to you as he thrust his cock past your clenching entrance, forcing you to take him once more.

He shushes you tenderly, maneuvering the two of you to sit up, still seated on his cock as the stabbing pain throbs through your entire body, unable to form anything coherent as he gently fucks up into you.

“No more.” The words are slurred together, spurred by how he palpates around your still dislocated shoulder. There’s a curious hum in your ears as the head of his cock rams into that sensitive bundle, a pained moan escaping you.

Slowly he grabs your bicep, lifting your limp arm and carefully rolling and rolling until there’s another even softer pop. That same stabbing pain ricochets through your body, forcing you to clench down on him, gasping when you feel his cum spill inside of you.

You feel faint, sick, wanting to escape as he keeps you clutched tightly against him, continuing to prod at the abused muscles of your shoulder.

“It’s okay.” It’s not, you think bitterly as you slump against him, a fuzziness overtaking your vision.