Archive of Our Own

"Would you like ice with that?"

Kuroo smiles as he drops two ice cubes from the tray into the little plastic cup, handing them to the woman who blinks at him gratefully. Her bratty child kicks the seat in front of him again, and she hisses at him, placing the drink in front of him to shut him up.

"Thank you," she says, tapping her bank card against the little in-flight card machine.

Kuroo's focus is already somewhere else as he murmurs the standard thank you.

"So, Tetsu-chan," Oikawa drawled as Kuroo checked in past the departure gate. "Have you seen tomorrow's flight manifesto?"

Working as a first class attendant on one of Japan's classier airlines means Kuroo isn’t a stranger to fame. It’s in the job –  a celebrity is a customer as much as anyone else; service still has to be outstanding. And if you gape, you might just get fired. 'The customer’s pleasure is our highest priority’ has been drummed into him every day for four years now. He’s served CEO’s, pop stars, athletes, over-compensating businessmen, and everything in between. Kuroo is no stranger at all to celebrity. He knows how to carry himself, how to behave. 

It still isn’t every day that Japan's men's volleyball team ended up on one of his flights. He's used to famous people, but famous people he actually cares about?

"I had an idea. Since our little tally's going cold."

It still isn’t every flight that Kuroo makes a point of trying to make eye contact with an international athlete and winking while he clicks his seatbelt together in the safety demonstration before take-off. Ushijima Wakatoshi had looked completely non-plussed at his efforts, so that one’s a no-go.

It isn’t usually any flight at all, actually.  Oikawa’s the one who’ll pick out conquests as they bring him their passports at the gate, but Kuroo likes to keep his options open. It’s no fun if it’s that easy. Somewhere in their soul, everyone wants to pin down a flight attendant. Kuroo isn’t in this for the mechanics, he’s after the chase, the anticipation. The cocked eyebrow of interest that a CEO will shoot him when he brings them their drinks. The look of annoyance on a bratty idol, used to getting anything they want, when he makes them sit and wait.

But it’s been a while now. For Oikawa too. Oikawa, who’s clearly bored with the lack of excitement, if the little challenge he'd posed Kuroo yesterday is anything to judge by.

"First one to convince an Olympic athlete to join the mile high club with them gets to stay in first class for all the flights this month. Loser has to cover all the economy shifts."

And Kuroo is not going back to economy. Not if he can help it. For starters, the bathrooms are disgusting. He’s six foot three. Oikawa might have started in first class on his first day, because apparently some people just ooze entitlement. But Kuroo's worked to get here, on the back of work, wit and a good reputation. (And screwing the right pilot didn't hurt either.) 

He’s not going to lose this, and definitely not to Oikawa. Which is one of a few reasons why he spent half an hour before the flight working himself open on the hotel bed paid for by the richest airline in Japan, three fingers barely enough to stretch himself for the plug currently sat in his ass.

It’s filthy. It’s lewd. He wonders if anyone can tell by looking at him and sort of hopes that they can, because it’s a turn-on like nothing else these days.  

It all comes back to good customer service, really.

He pushes the trolley back further towards the section where they're all sat and grins as the Olympic team look up at him. Most of them will have refreshments on their minds, but there's always a couple interested in other...services.

Athletes are something else, honed, focused and strong. Kuroo’s preferred target. He likes the look, the feel of someone at the peak of their condition. The training, the power, the strength.

There’s one gaze that stops him. He knows this one. He’s been obsessed with it for years.

Bokuto Koutarou finishes gesticulating something to his club teammate with a triumphant smile, and looks up to meet Kuroo’s eyes. The plane seems to judder, shrink around him. Bokuto had won Japan the gold back in summer, that final spike heard around the world, sharp and precise and deadly. But Kuroo’s been obsessed with those arms, the stretch of black and gold over muscle and power and glory for much, much longer.

Kuroo hasn’t been in a relationship for a while now, but Bokuto Koutarou has been top of his celebrity dream-sex list since he'd made the national team at 19.

Bokuto’s a big guy on paper and on screen, but he’s bigger in person, in presence; the strength of his gaze almost has Kuroo running over his foot with the drinks trolley. None of the guys on the team are small, but Bokuto has so much of him, he doesn’t seem like he should fit in such a confined space - even in first class. Kuroo wants to burn away in the shine of him.

He lets his mouth pull into a slow smile as Bokuto stares at him, dropping his gaze to the floor for a moment before turning to serve Sakusa Kiyoomi to his right. It’s not often that he can feel eyes on him, but now – his skin prickles, delighted knowing that someone’s watching him.

Bokuto almost seems to be wriggling by the time Kuroo gets to him and finally spares him a glance in return. A glance that he’s glad he isn’t holding anything for; there’s no chance he wouldn't have dropped it. He doesn’t think Bokuto actually knows what he wants yet, just that he wants, but that’s ok. Kuroo’s pretty good at helping people see clearly.

Kuroo blinks, before he lets himself smile again, slow and lazy, just like before. "Can I get you anything, sir?" He asks, letting the honorific purr off his tongue. He watches Bokuto swallow, and almost laughs. This could be too easy, but he needs to pace it. Half the thrill of this sort of thing is in the pacing. Too quick, and the entire flight ends up awkward between the two of you, as well as everyone knowing exactly what you'd done all the way until landing. Leave it too long, and you may as well just get a hotel when you got there.

"Can I just get a water please?" Bokuto asks, getting his voice back under control. Miya Atsumu snorts next to him, muttering something under his breath that makes Bokuto go bright red.

"Of course," Kuroo says, winking as he makes a point of bending down and sticking his ass out to get a plastic cup. "Will you want ice with that? It's a bit hot, isn't it?" The absent-minded little tongue swipe that used to make Kenma gag is enough to wet his lips as he pours a bottle of mineral water out.

"Uhhh..." Bokuto answers cleverly, staring at his mouth. "Yes?"

"That sounded like a question, not an answer," Kuroo teases. "Which is it?"

Miya scoffs. "Yes, he wants ice in his drink. Can I get a vodka?"

Kuroo laughs and hands Bokuto his drink, before pouring out Miya's. “Of course, sir.” He lets his gaze fall back to Bokuto as he speaks, a little twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Bokuto stares back, silent. Kuroo watches his tongue flick out over his bottom lip before he moves on, congratulating himself. Good start.

"Tsum-tsum?" He hears whispered in a voice that has never gotten acquainted with the concept of quiet.

"What."

"Was the hot flight steward flirting with me?"

"What do you fucking think?"

---

The buzzing of the passenger assist button pulls Kuroo out of his book, and he blinks with irritation. He only just sat down. It’s going to be a long flight, and Kuroo’s notoriously bad at sleeping anywhere, always has been – so planes are completely out of the question. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need time to turn off his brain.

He rests his head back, listening. Oikawa isn't up front with him, so maybe he's already -

It buzzes again.

And then a third time.

He sighs, affixing his customer service face into position before he checks which seat. A quick glance out confirms his suspicions. Two rows in front of the Olympic team area. At least there’ll be time to tug at Bokuto’s interests again.

Kuroo moves quietly down the aisle to the seat of the annoying twenty-something who’s disturbed his momentary peace. "Can I help, sir?" He asks politely. He lets his glance slide away from the young man for a moment, a couple of rows back.

Bokuto stares back at him. Unreadable. The fluster from earlier is gone. It’s all predator now that the doubt’s been pushed away, and heat floods to Kuroo’s face.

"Yeah, can you get my bag down for me? I want my travel pillow," the passenger says, not looking up from his phone. Completely unaware of the game being played out next to him.

"Of course," Kuroo says, brain working on autopilot. Customer service first. He reaches up, popping the catch on the overhead storage bin, and hefts the sports bag into his arms with a lot more of an oof than he'd anticipated. What the hell did some people need to pack? "Here you go."

He turns, catching Bokuto's eye again as the difficult passenger mumbles a thanks and rummages in his bag. Bokuto who’s still staring at him, bright and brilliant gold.

Kuroo has an idea.

He winks at Bokuto, watching long enough to see the shocked little way his eyes widen for a moment before he turns back to the other passenger. "Was that everything, sir?"

The passenger nods, interest in Kuroo already gone. It’s a shame his dignity is long dead, Kuroo ponders as he casts another meaningful glance down the aisle at Bokuto. And promptly fumbles with the heavy bag, making a point of struggling to get it back up into the overhead locker. His mother ought to be ashamed of him.

There’s a rustle of fabric. Footsteps. And then a warm body sliding into place behind him, arms coming up to steady the bag. Breath on the back of his neck. Kuroo's breath hitches as Bokuto leans into him, the pressure nudging the plug tight inside him, shivers trembling over his skin. Fuck.

"You looked like you needed some help," Bokuto murmurs, the bag steadied back into place. Neither of them move for a long moment, far longer than necessary. A long second pressed against each other. The tiny passage of air where Bokuto's hands hang so close to Kuroo's thighs is full of static. 

Kuroo turns his head to the side, eyes lidded. "Thank you. Sir." He says, enjoying too much the way blood rushes to that handsome face. Bokuto takes a step to the side, suddenly aware of himself in the tight space. They were making maybe too much of a show, but...

"No problem," he says, picking up a grin in a way that made Kuroo's stomach do all sorts of twists. "Let me know if you need any more help."

And then he’s walking back to his seat. And Kuroo blinks, and smiles politely at the passenger who's finally taken his attention off his phone to stare, eyes flicking between Kuroo and the retreating volleyball star.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Kuroo asks smoothly, completely unwilling to indulge a speck of shame for even a moment. He wouldn't have joined the mile high club years ago if there wasn't a part of him that didn't enjoy people noticing.

"N-no," the young man says, avoiding Kuroo's gaze, face red. Crossing his legs in his seat.

Kuroo says nothing, his laugh hidden behind years of customer service training.

---

There’s a little bump of turbulence, and Kuroo grimaces. He’s not massively fond of this part of flying. People fuss and scream and fidget, and flight attendants don’t usually get to sit down. Unless the turbulence is really bad, which brings its own set of worries. 

“What do you reckon we should do first in Rome?” Oikawa asks next to him, sounding bored. It’s a calculated distraction. Kuroo knows that Oikawa knows that he doesn’t like turbulence. “I’ve heard the Colosseum’s a bit of a wash out.”

“Who did you hear that from, Makki?” Kuroo says, rolling his eyes. “He thinks Chuck E Cheese is the pinnacle of fine dining. I want to see the Colosseum.”

Oikawa sighs, far too dramatically. “You’re such a bore. Are you going to make me sit and listen to you spit out a history book again?” 

Kuroo doesn’t get a chance to reply as Oikawa’s gaze snaps over his shoulder, polished service smile back in place.

Frowning, Kuroo turns, his jaw snapping shut at the sight of Bokuto waiting behind him, amusement on his face. 

“You’ve got an admirer, Kuro-chan,” Oikawa teases, a tense little line of fury threaded in his voice. 

“That’s no way to talk about a passenger,” he replies vaguely, not even turning, shoving at where he thinks Oikawa is, provoking a squawk of annoyance. “You’ve got stuff to do, haven’t you?” 

“Seems like you have things to do as well.” Oikawa jibes, stalking away. He sounds pissed.

Kuroo might have laughed if Bokuto isn’t right in front of him, taking all his attention. It’s exhilarating, being caught in all that focus.

He smiles politely, his hands clasped over his stomach. “Is there a problem?” 

Bokuto looks like there is exactly the opposite of a problem as he takes a step closer. “So I was wondering. About earlier.” 

It takes a lot of composure to keep his face blank and interested. “What about earlier, Bokuto?” He can almost taste the bad pick-up line coming. Bokuto has a daring, challenging cut in the corner of his mouth - only problem is they’re still standing quite publicly in front of all the first class passengers.

That makes Bokuto pause, derailed. “You know me?” 

Kuroo could purr; he loves throwing people off. Especially when they think they’re running the show. “Oh yeah. Who doesn’t know you, ace? You won Japan the gold. Very impressive.”

It’s a treat to watch Bokuto get lost for words. He blinks once. “You watch volleyball?” 

They’re getting a bit off the point with this. Bokuto’s asking out of genuine surprise and interest, and that won’t really do. Kuroo wants to turn the heat up, not turn it down. “Used to play in high school,” he nods, smiling. “I always go to the Jackals games when I’ve got a chance. Their ace is pretty amazing. All that strength, you know. Powerful."

There’s a lot more than just interest in the way Bokuto’s looking at him now. Sharp eyes and danger in the way he smiles. “Yeah? You want me to introduce you sometime?” 

Just the hint of a smile. Eyes wandering to the sunset glowing through the plane windows, Kuroo keeps his tone light as he says, “I always wonder what he’s like when the spotlight’s gone, you know? What happens to all that energy behind closed doors. In the dark."

He’s about as subtle as an ox in a tumble dryer, but it’s still deeply satisfying to watch the way Bokuto’s eyebrows shoot up. “...You mean -” 

“I mean, sir," Kuroo lets his eyes snap back to Bokuto with a smirk and leans forward, his hand a little too personal on Bokuto’s arm, faces close together, “That if there’s nothing else I can help you with, you really ought to sit down for the moment. Quite a lot of turbulence on this stretch of the flight.”

Bokuto holds his gaze, before his mouth twitches into a smile that makes Kuroo swallow. “Until later, then.” 

Kuroo breathes out as Bokuto heads back to his seat, his mind on a completely different type of turbulence that could knock him off his feet. He doesn’t think he can drag this out much longer.

---

The wonderful thing about red eye flights, Kuroo muses as he wanders between rows and hands out plastic-wrapped pillows, is that it’s much easier to do whatever you want in the dark. 

So when he hands Bokuto his blanket and pillow and lets his hand linger two seconds longer than necessary on the plastic now covering Bokuto's lap, maybe accidentally presses a little just to be sure he gets the idea - the wonderful thing is that no one else would even know he'd done it in the dark plane interior.

He makes sure Bokuto knows. Bokuto definitely knows if the wide, excited eyes, the hitched little breath are any indication as he holds Kuroo's gaze, the hand that flutters and settles and burns on top of his for half a second before Kuroo pulls away again.

Kuroo continues down the aisle, smiling lightly as he sees the setter Kageyama Tobio already asleep, Hinata Shouyou's head on his shoulder. They aren’t unusual - quite a few people drift off as soon as the flight takes off. Kuroo has sort of been counting on it.

He doesn’t look to the side as he walks back to the front of the cabin. Not until there’s a firm tug on his arm. A hand that falls to rest on the back of the tailored blue waistcoat of his uniform. A hand that doesn’t move.

Kuroo lets his eyes draw to Bokuto slowly. The cloying air of the plane seems to take all his energy to draw up his nose, the burn-freeze of all the tension drawing to the centre of his back where Bokuto finally has his hands on him.

Bokuto who looks ready to drag him down right there in the middle of the cabin. Wouldn't that be something? A thumb massages a little circle into his back, and Kuroo swallows. "Can I help?" He asks quietly, far too aware of the many people trying to sleep. More aware of the people who aren’t sleeping.

He's seen Bokuto play from the stands, he’s heard that voice rise far from the court. There’s a real danger of everyone being woken up, that he keeps turning over in his head. He's going to have to work to keep him quiet.

The athlete's fingers tighten against Kuroo's back, and he grins. Kuroo sort of forgets what he was thinking about. "I was wondering if I could ask you something?"

Kuroo checks over his shoulder. Just in case. "Maybe you'd better come up to the front. Just so you don't disturb anyone." He thinks he did a pretty good job of making his words sound innocent. The smile that stretches over Bokuto's teeth says the opposite.

"Sure," he agrees, hand drifting over Kuroo's hipbone lightly enough to make him want to tell Bokuto to hold him properly. And then the contact is gone, Bokuto undoing his seatbelt, his hands a little too eager on the mechanism.

Fuck. Fuck, it’s almost too easy. Bokuto Koutarou is following him to the bathrooms to -

Maybe it’s the altitude. Kuroo feels kind of light-headed. Maybe the cabin has depressurised, and he’s passed out, and this is an oxygen-starved dream. Except Bokuto’s close enough behind him that he can hear the breath leave his nose, the touch of his hand lingering on Kuroo’s back and in the muscle; Bokuto is the most real thing here.

He nudges aside the curtain separating the entrance to the bathroom from the main cabin, stepping to the side and pressing himself against the stowed refreshment trollies to let Bokuto enter the narrow space. "You needed help you said?" He hums, watching the curtain swish closed behind them. Watching Bokuto stare at him, tense. His eyes flick down. Back up with a grin pulling the side of his face with the realisation of just how much the athlete is packing. "Hm. Bit of a situation, you’ve got there. Don’t know how much help I can be."

Bokuto doesn't look like he’s going to answer, hard lines and focus as he seems to waver on taking a step closer. Oikawa’s nowhere to be seen. All is quiet. His nerves on edge, Kuroo reaches around Bokuto, his hand barely grazing the sweat pants, and pushes open the bathroom door.

After you, he nods, not quite trusting himself to speak.

They share a lingering glance. The athlete heads through the doorway, holding it open for Kuroo behind him. Kuroo’s once again so glad he doesn’t have to work economy class anymore, because there’s no way two guys as big as them would fit. 

The door clicks shut, and Bokuto – Bokuto hesitates. He’s careful now.

Kuroo considers him, in the middle of the space. They’re pretty much of a height. Bokuto’s broader. Big hands, his mind helpfully supplies. Another, calmer part of his brain notes the sweet face. Kind, he thinks, but kind is not going to win him a bet. Kind is not going to get him fucked until he can’t walk. It’s not often he finds someone like Bokuto.

“Come here,” he orders quietly, just the measured amount of tooth in his smile, and Bokuto shutters into action, one step, two steps, three as he backs Kuroo up against the door to greet him happily.

"I've been waiting for hours," he grins curiously, one hand splayed against the door next to Kuroo's head. No space wasted between them at all.

It isn’t enough with all that burning bright sunshine right in his face. Kuroo grins, a little savage, maybe a little stupid. "So why are you still waiting now?" He barely breathes, fierce right back as that face he's seen a thousand times from a distance and might only ever get to hold once in front of him shifts too quickly before settling.

And then Bokuto is kissing him.

Then Bokuto is kissing him, hot, heavy and desperate as his hands clench into the silk of Kuroo's waistcoat, bunching the fabric and tight, strong as he pulls Kuroo right up against him and traps him against the door with a quiet thump. Greedy hands, skimming down his side to tighten on his waist. Long, broad, heavy and solid in a deep, rolling moan when Kuroo rocks his hips up against him. Too good.

Too loud.

"Careful," Kuroo murmurs, pulling his face reluctantly away from Bokuto for just a moment, light fizzing and bursting all over his skin, Bokuto's big, hot hand cupped to his neck. "Don't want anyone to hear."

Bokuto stares at him, raging eyes, his tongue flicking out over his lips restlessly. "You're -" And whatever he was going to say next is lost in a curse as Kuroo uses the little gap to palm his hand against the bulge in his sweatpants, a wicked grin flitting over his face as Bokuto grinds into his hand.

"I'm what, Bokuto?" He whispers, slipping his hand inside his pants, his breath hitching as his fingers curl around the hard length of him and Bokuto growls against his lips, kissing him back into the door. He flicks his thumb over the tip, shivers all over his skin as Bokuto makes no secret of his response, rutting against him hard enough to make him gasp.

"Fucking hot," is all he gets in answer, before Bokuto steals the gasp from him as well, burning on his lips as he crashes them together, hips in some kind of turbulent push and pull that’s everything he'd hoped it would be.

More, in fact. Bokuto is pulling the strength from his knees with what he’s doing with his tongue at the corner of Kuroo’s jaw, and he hasn't even done anything. Oikawa would know if nothing happened, he always did. And they don’t have forever up here. Every moment has to count.

The hand which isn’t slowly fisting over Bokuto's cock, riding out the forceful little thrusts, he slips over the athlete's mouth, forcing the space back between them regretfully. His eyes gleam bright in the ambient light, wild and excited. Bokuto has always looked handsome but in person... In person he’s stunning.

Kuroo winks, pushing a little to get Bokuto to step back. Just enough space for him to kneel and hook his hands into the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down to his ankles. Bokuto looks down at him, eyes wide, one hand braced against the door as Kuroo pulls his lip between his teeth and presses his tongue against the strain in Bokuto's boxers, feeling the push of him in his mouth, tongue pulling on the friction of the fabric.

"Holy shit, I-" Bokuto whimpers, and Kuroo pulls away with a snort of laughter.

"What did I say about being quiet?" He asks teasingly, not waiting for an answer as he drags the boxers away too, taking in the size of Bokuto for a cautious moment, a plunge in his stomach. The half-erection he’d glimpsed outside didn’t do him justice. Bokuto’s huge.

He runs his hand along the bottom of the silky hot skin in delight, waiting for the little hitch of breath he gets. Then he grasps Bokuto's thick, firm thigh with his hand, the skin he's only ever caught a glimpse of between kneepads and shorts but has occupied his thoughts for a disproportionate amount of time and sets to work, dragging his tongue over the end of Bokuto's cock, salty and hot. Bokuto bucks a little, fingers curling into Kuroo's hair on instinct. His eyes are huge as he watches Kuroo in awe, traps his lip between his teeth as Kuroo wraps his long fingers around the base of Bokuto’s cock.

Kuroo stares up through his lashes, teeth barely apart from flesh, and grins. "No noise, now, ace."

Bokuto clenches his jaw, a twitch in the neck in the effort to stay quiet. And Kuroo sucks a breath in through his nose, before swallowing Bokuto down. Fingers tighten into his hair helplessly as he hums, relaxing his throat as he pulls back, dragging his tongue along the flat of the length lewdly, slowly so he can watch through his lashes the way that Bokuto's eyes roll back in his head before sinking back down, further, shoving down the gag reflex as Bokuto fills his mouth and he focuses on keeping his jaw loose, his cheeks hollowed as he sinks and draws.

The nice thing about Bokuto, he thinks idly as hips shiver and he pulls on the back of a thigh to encourage him to do what he wants rather than just following Kuroo, is that there’s nothing subtle about him when he moves on the court. He’s pure energy, unrestrained, leading and surging and winning.

Here, now though - he resists, not quite willing to let himself go; a little experimental thrust of his hips, followed by a pause. Kuroo would roll his eyes if it isn’t quite so sweet. Does Bokuto really think he’s capable of damaging him? He’s seen Bokuto play; he wouldn’t be surprised if not many people can keep up.

Fire fills his chest. Kuroo knows he can keep up.  

He moans quietly, mouth full of cock, his hand tugging at the hollow behind Bokuto's knee. He doesn't let just anyone fuck his face, but Bokuto makes something on his switchboard light up. He lets his teeth scrape a little as he pulls back this time, before looking up through his lashes, a wink, before sinking, taking Bokuto all the way to the base with an obscene little groan. 

He hears a breathy, messed up gasp above him; fingers clench and pull painfully at the roots of his hair and suddenly Kuroo’s struggling not to gag as Bokuto stops trying to hold his hips back, all he can do just to keep his jaw still. Hard pressure forces against the back of his throat, and it’s too much and just enough as Bokuto fucks his hips forward and forces his nose to the smell of sex buried in the rough hairs at the crux of his hips, back and forth and relentless push as he tries to focus. Focus on Bokuto fucking his face and letting the stream of whispered curses and compliments fall from Bokuto's mouth, hand clenched around his knee to stay upright. 

Maybe it isn’t so bad if they make a bit of noise.

“Hey... fuck, fuck, I'm going to -" Bokuto mumbles, seeming almost lost in the frantic, frenetic, relentless roll of his hips against Kuroo's face. Somewhere else, Kuroo would be quite happy to let Bokuto finish, a smirk and a tease on his lips as he licks them clean, messy and aching, but...

He grips Bokuto's hip harder, an unspoken stop, and Bokuto obeys, his breath hitching. All it takes is one juddery little aftershock of a thrust before he listens. Kuroo pulls away, jaw aching, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth as he blinks, tries to come back to himself. “You wanna waste your appetite on the starter?"

It takes a minute for his words to make sense to Bokuto who stares at him for a very long moment. His mouth stutters open a couple of times. Kuroo thinks it’s as good a pause as he’s going to get as he slides the little plastic condom packet out of his back pocket. He’s obsessed with the way Bokuto watches him rip the plastic and manoeuvre the latex onto the tip of his tongue. 

He’s more obsessed with the feel of Bokuto’s ass under his hands, thick fingers clenched into his hair as he sucks and rolls the condom slowly over his cock, taking his time for this. Bokuto’s too big to rush - it’s enough of a job to keep his tongue pliant in his aching jaw. He still has to use his hands to finish the job, little gagging sounds when Bokuto presses forward without meaning to in his eagerness. 

“Where the fuck did you…” Bokuto whisper-praises, releasing the death grip he has at the roots of Kuroo’s hair before kicking his pants off, pulling at Kuroo's vest, tugging him to his feet and push-pulling him effortlessly away from the door until the back of his waist hits the counter of the sink and he bites his tongue hard enough to leave impressions as Bokuto's hands find their way to his ass with a squeeze and the Olympian kisses down his neck. Greedy, he can’t help but think with a laugh as Bokuto squeezes, big palms manhandling him. He’s got his arm around Bokuto’s neck pulling them closer together before he even realises he wants them closer, his hand runs through Bokuto’s hair and tugs to get his lips against the warm curl of his ear. He can’t get enough of him. There’s a scrape of teeth against the muscles in his neck, and he shivers, arching into the pillar of Bokuto's body without thinking.

"Ngh, stop," Kuroo complains with a breathless laugh. "No marks. Not at work."

Bokuto makes a grumbling sound, a controlling hand on the back of Kuroo's neck as he grudgingly brings their faces back together. "Want everyone to know," he breathes into Kuroo's ear, tugging a knee up against his waist and making Kuroo's space his, bending Kuroo to fit to him in a way that makes him real glad that Bokuto’s holding him up. “I fucked the hot flight attendant.” They meld too well, and Kuroo gulps as Bokuto's hands fiddle with the waist of his pants. The only layers left between the two of them.

"I mean," he mutters, face red with that piercing gaze raking him over, "No marks where anyone can see."

Bokuto grins, threatening to burn him up. "Knew it. You just got that look, you know."

"Excuse me?" Kuroo says, pretending to look offended. "What does that mean?"

Bokuto doesn’t even fumble. "Means you look like you want someone to take you apart," he murmurs, low and throaty, hands landing on Kuroo's waist to spin him round and press him over the sink before he can get his tongue in order to reply. He presses up behind him without waiting, his cock pushing against the fluting of the plug in his ass, catching Kuroo's breath in his throat. "And I was right."

"Fuck," Kuroo manages as Bokuto squeezes at his ass, threads a hand through his hair to mess it up even further. He catches Bokuto's eye in the mirror over the sink and almost swears again at the look on his face. "C'mon, Bokuto, don't fuck around."

Bokuto leans closer, face next to Kuroo's in the mirror as he tightens the hand tangled in his hair with a grin. Never breaking eye contact. "Fuck around with what?"

Two can play at that game, and Kuroo has had a lot more practise. "Take my clothes off and fuck me, sir." He grins, muscles tight with anticipation as Bokuto's hand clenches on his ass. Then there’s a fumbling of hands as Bokuto tries to get his pants off too quickly, hands not cooperating and pulling slightly, the two of them slotting together closer before there’s a rustle of fabric, air against the skin of his legs, and -

Silence.

Kuroo waits, breath held, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. Did Bokuto not like what he saw? He looks up to the mirror, and Bokuto -

Bokuto looks like he’s seen god. An experimental squeeze against his ass which has him clenching and arching at the touch with a sweary little shiver, not meaning to tighten around the plug. "Holy fuck, where have you been all my life?" Bokuto says, mouth falling open as his hand lands on Kuroo's bare skin, his eyes fixed - presumably - to the base of the plug in his ass.

Kuroo laughs, not able to hold it in, an ugly cackle bouncing in the space and his head dropping. Bokuto's other hand slots neatly to his hip bone, skimming the bottom of his shirt. "You were doing so fucking well," he chokes out from his aching jaw.

And then the big hand which slammed home the medal-winning spike at the Olympics closes firmly over his mouth. Bokuto isn’t laughing. Bokuto’s intensity and strength and victory as he stares at Kuroo and asks with a growing smile, "Didn't you say we had to be quiet?" There’s a nudge against the plug as Bokuto's fingers tug on it experimentally. Nudges it deeper, and Kuroo would have moaned if he could as the pressure pushes deeper. The tease falls back down his throat. "How long have you had this in? Before take off?"

Kuroo stares at him, staring at Kuroo, that gaze that keeps flitting across him before finding his eyes again in the mirror. Kuroo nods slowly. He doesn’t think he can bear to keep dragging this out.

"Yeah?" Bokuto leans in closer, breath tickling over his ear. "You been planning this? Thinking about me?"

It’s clear Bokuto isn’t expecting an answer when he ends his sentence, fingers grasped around the fluting, and drags the plug out of him so fucking slowly, eyes fixed on Kuroo's face in the mirror as he struggles not to whine, chasing after the sensation, hips rocking backwards, chest pushing into the marble effect of the counter helplessly.

He'd be lying if he hadn't gotten off, thinking about… pretty much exactly this. Bokuto sees straight through him. And now he's actually here, staring at Kuroo in the mirror, fingers tight over Kuroo's jaw as he places the plug down on the counter, close enough to Kuroo's face that he can see the shine of lube, wet on the surface. 

It’s so much better in person; even Kuroo’s imagination hadn’t been quite so flattering to Bokuto, and he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to take him.

The plug rolls a little on the surface, pulling him back to the present, and Bokuto moves into position to take its place. Kuroo swallows, trying to relax.

Except Bokuto… doesn’t. Except he seems almost hesitant now, watching Kuroo like he wants permission, the tip of his cock glancing over the skin of his ass. It’s too much anticipation, he’s just wide open and gaping and empty and gasping, and he needs Bokuto inside him.

So Kuroo meets his eyes in the mirror, feeling daring, not quite sure what’s going to happen as he raises an eyebrow at Bokuto. Well, ace?

All the warning he gets is the grasp tightening on his jaw, and then Bokuto's heavy hand tight and controlling on his ass cheek as he presses in, determined and slow and such a stretch, deep as he grins and makes Kuroo take him with a deep groan of delight.

Kuroo arches, breathing hard through his nose. Bokuto slides in, no friction, just this agonising, beautiful stretch. He tightens, and Bokuto responds just as easy, his hands clasping and soothing and stroking.

A pause, as Bokuto stays seated inside, not even all the way, before he pushes on Kuroo's hip, out before rocking his hips forward, further, working him open thrust by agonisingly slow thrust, a slow happy drop of swears from his lips. "Fuck, you're so... so fucking good, fuck" as he finds a new part of Kuroo with each surging wave, the praise easy and thoughtless as he pushes and stretches Kuroo around himself. Like he was made for Bokuto. There’s a roll that takes Bokuto flush against him, buried all the way in, and Kuroo presses his forehead down. It’s too much, feeling this filled. He’s strung out in the stillness. He needs… he doesn’t know. 

"Fuck," Bokuto manages, awed as he stares at the pair of them, his hands tight and strong around Kuroo. "No one takes me as good as you." It’s been a long time since he's been held and trapped like this, pinned and vulnerable like Bokuto has him in that bruising golden stare. He swallows, trying to shift, pressure and heat building for every moment that Bokuto doesn’t move. His hips wriggle and press back, desperate for movement. He feels stretched too far, even with Bokuto being slow with him, trying to adjust and sending judders through both of them as he clenches. He doesn’t know where they start. He doesn’t know where they end. Kuroo lets his head fall forward, pressed against Bokuto everywhere, and lets himself go lax in strong hands.

Fingers tighten on his hip bone, soothing as the hand runs down, pressing into the muscle of his thigh. And then Bokuto shifts, dragging where Kuroo's still too tight, even after the plug, even after the copious amounts of lube he'd worked himself open with; he hadn’t seen someone like Bokuto in his plans. Hasn't had to work to stretch to someone so insistent, so big in… too long to remember. Bokuto drags himself all the way out of Kuroo, agonisingly carefully, before slamming his hips forward hard enough to bang Kuroo's hips into the edge of the counter, hard enough to pull a muffled little moan between Kuroo's teeth.

"Yeah?" Bokuto mutters, a question, a hint of teeth in his smile, challenging and driven as his thumb brushes almost lovingly over Kuroo's cheekbone before he does it again, the bastard, enough force that Kuroo almost bites his tongue and knows he’s going to have bruises on his hips by the evening. And then again, the intermittent thrusts picking up steam as Bokuto fucks him loose, hot and deep and desperate, breath rushing on the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin. Kuroo braces his hands on the edge of the sink, pushes against the stone effect, trying to hang on to the taps for fuck's sake to get a little bit of a push against Bokuto's strength, Bokuto who’s pounding into him hard enough that he’s almost banging his head on the mirror, hard enough that he has to focus to catch sight of his own hazy, hazy eyes in the glass.

He finally gets a breath, a ragged pant out of his mouth when Bokuto pauses in his rhythm, readjusting himself, the hand slipping from Kuroo’s mouth to sit in the crook of his hip over the sink. And then he’s being manhandled, dragged back onto Bokuto so fast he can’t stop the gasp that falls off his lips as Bokuto slams into him, the angle twitched to have his brain fuddled for a second.

It’s kind of relentless, the way Bokuto seems determined to drive him apart, because he doesn’t stop at Kuroo’s shuddery breaths, he doesn’t stop at the wet little moan he gets from Kuroo when he hitches his hips up and ruts past that mind-numbing little bundle of nerves that leaves him twitching, unable to do much beside lie his head down and try not to sob with pleasure, dizzy pressure building in his chest and his stomach as he gets taken apart by an Olympian. Kids around the world worship Bokuto. And Bokuto is here, worshipping him, a litany, a chant of words, “Fuck, you’re so good, perfect..."

It’s more noticeable when Bokuto does stop muttering and cursing, ragged little breaths as he pauses, panting. His hand clenches on the countertop for a second. He stares at Kuroo, down at him. Not in the mirror. Eye to eye. “I wanna make you come first,” he says, resolute, flushed, with a glint in his eye that might be the death of Kuroo. There’s absolutely no chance that anyone standing outside didn’t hear that.

“Ok,” he croaks, unsure how to feel about his ruined voice. He must be a sight, flushed and messy and wrecked. Absolutely fucked in more ways than one. “Fuck. Yeah, ok.”

Bokuto’s face just lights up at that, and Kuroo lets his eyes slipped close, pleased. Bokuto wraps his hand around Kuroo’s cock, almost ignored, and it’s gleeful when he does. Like he’s the lucky one. “You’re so good for me, holy shit…”

Kuroo wants to kid himself that it’s loving, the murmured, slurred little whispers that Bokuto keeps up, the “You’re so hot, so good, fuck dude, look at you, so pretty…” as he fucks into him fast and deep, his dry hand jerking him off. Bokuto pauses to wrap an arm around his chest. He tugs him upright, leaning back into his chest until Kuroo is forced to see himself.

He looks absolutely wrecked, flushed all down his neck, eyes damp and hazy, but it’s Bokuto that drags him in, his hand clenched and rucking the fabric of his shirt, face tucked to the back of his neck as he kisses, sucks a heat mark at the bump of Kuroo’s spine. His eyes flick up from his work, a triumphant grin on his face as he finishes Kuroo off with a couple more tugs, held tight against the burning heat of him as Kuroo goes happy and boneless.

It takes him a long moment to blink past the fuzz, a longer one to realise Bokuto isn’t moving inside him, still tight and heavy. And then he sees, sees the fluid on the glass, the drips and smears and the smug fucking look on Bokuto’s face. He almost wants to smack him.

“What is this, a fucking porno?” Kuroo complains lightly, settled and lethargic. He’d drop if Bokuto wasn’t holding him up. There’s something absolutely filthy about the sight of his own cum overlaid on his face. He kind of wants to see Bokuto lick it up.

“Nah,” Bokuto licks up the side of his neck instead, all his skin too sensitive, “Never seen a porn star as hot as you.”

Kuroo doesn’t even get a chance to stay flustered before Bokuto lets go of his chest, grabbing his hair, and he has a split second to remember that Bokuto didn’t get a chance to finish himself in his desire to make Kuroo come first before he’s bent back over the sink, a hand tight in his hair as Bokuto ruts into him like a fucking storm, tearing little gasps from him every time their hips meet and Bokuto finds him over and over to set his over-sensitive nerves jangling through his system. Little sparks of feedback from his smoking circuit board.

“Fucking hell,” he slurs when Bokuto slumps on him, sated, his brain turned to absolute mush. “Fuck. Hell.” He doesn’t think he’ll able to manage a lot more for a hot minute.

“Yeah.” Bokuto agrees dreamily, his lips murmuring against Kuroo’s neck. “Holy shit, dude. That was…”

“Fuck.” Kuroo supplies, and Bokuto laughs, a rumbling in his chest that Kuroo feels all the way through him.

“Yeah.” He shifts, air on Kuroo’s skin. The light press of lips against his temple is a touch too intimate. The distance starts to stretch between them, and it kind of sucks. He wants to be held after sex like that. He doesn’t know why he’s being a baby about it. These things are never more than a one-hit wonder. There’s a sound like plastic rustling. “Hey, uh, where do you um…”

With an effort, Kuroo pushes himself up on his elbows. Bokuto looks kind of unsure of himself in the ambient bathroom light now all his drive is spent in the tied off condom hanging from his fingers. The sight’s kind of hilarious, and Kuroo wheezes.

“Bin in the corner, dumbass.” He says affectionately as he watches Bokuto flush and cross the room in the mirror.

“Aren’t you supposed to be nicer to passengers?” He complains, taking care to be quiet.

It takes a lot of composure for Kuroo to bite his lip as he says, “The customer’s pleasure is our highest priority,” and that’s enough to send Bokuto over the edge as well, the smallest thump as he falls against the wall, his face creased with laughter.

“Fuck, you’re funny too? That’s not fair,” he grins. It spikes something weird in Kuroo’s chest. Affection for Bokuto and his goofy laugh and easy compliments. “Not gonna lie, I kinda…” Bokuto trails off, his face pink. He won’t look at Kuroo.

“What?” He asks, too curious to leave it. It’s so funny ( Sweet, his mind tries), that Bokuto just fucked his brains out in an airplane bathroom and now finds it hard to talk to him.

“It’s a bit gross,” Bokuto says, grimacing. He sighs when Kuroo rolls his eyes, scratching his head. Still no eye contact. “Kind of. Wanted to… Nah, it’s weird now. Sexy vibes are gone.”

Oh, this is too interesting, and Kuroo really ought to leave this alone. “Tell me, or I’m selling my story to the tabloids,” he says, mouth hitched to the side. "I fucked a gold medallist volleyball player on a plane, got the condom to prove it." His jaw aches when he smirks, a reminder of just how much Bokuto managed to do to him, in so short a time.

The athlete laughs, a little of his tension dissolving. He moves closer to Kuroo again, looking for his pants. “I uh. Was kind of thinking about. No condom. And plugging you back up again after.”

Oh. Oh. Bokuto’s paused behind him, watching Kuroo curiously in the mirror. He doesn’t even seem massively embarrassed by the stupid, horny thing he just said, the dirty little thought that’s lodged in Kuroo’s brain. Bokuto who wanted to… watch him walk around, knowing that Kuroo was…

He swallows. “Well. Maybe next time, huh?” It sounds flat when he says it. They both know there won’t be a next time.

It sucks, not least because Kuroo really can’t remember the last time he had sex that good. But Bokuto’s funny, and sweet, and loud, and hot. And he thought Kuroo was hot too. It’s a shame.

Bokuto chews on his lip. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

Kuroo cracks all over again, a loud and ugly snort before he manages to get himself under control and wake the whole plane up with his cackling. “You didn’t listen to the pre-flight announcement?”

And Bokuto bless him really looks like he’s about to start whining, his lip sticking out in a well-pronounced pout – when there’s a bang on the door.

They both freeze.

Bokuto stares at him, wide-eyed. ‘The fuck do we do?’ He mouths at Kuroo, panicked.

“Is anyone in there?” A voice calls, tentative.

Kuroo catches his own look in the mirror. There’s a splatter mark right over his right eye.

No one else can come in here. Unless it’s Oikawa. He thinks it’d be pretty fucking funny if Oikawa came in right about now. He hasn’t seen any of the other members of the team vanish out of their seats while he’s been watching, so he’s pretty sure he won. But it’s still vindicating to shove Oikawa’s nose in the evidence of the dirty dealings.

'Get rid of them,' he mouths back, because right now he’s still just about rediscovering how to work his legs. And he really does need a minute to make himself look presentable.

It takes about two seconds for Bokuto to shimmy his trousers back up, determination on his face. He sort of nods to himself, casts one last, longing look at Kuroo, before he slides out through the door, careful to keep it as closed as possible.

The soundproofing of the bathroom walls is pretty pathetic, Kuroo realises, when he hears every single one of Bokuto’s next words loud and clear, even through the closed door. “Sorry, dude. That in-flight curry is uh… I wouldn’t go in there for a while if I were you.”

Two hands over his mouth is barely enough to contain the laugh that threatens to escape him again. Three laughs for three. Bokuto’s… in light of what he just heard, charming is not the word that comes to mind.

In spite of himself, Kuroo is charmed.

Seven minutes is what his watch reckons it takes to clean the bathroom, reshuffle the rubbish in the bin to hide all the evidence and get his uniform back from 'crumpled wastrel’ to 'turbulence ruffled’. It’s a long flight, he reasons. Stewards never look perfect by the end.

The hair’s a lost cause. But then, it always has been.

He slips back into his seat out of sight of the passengers. It would technically have been his shift to sleep about now anyway, so he doesn’t really feel guilty for it. He flicks at the pages of his book for a couple of minutes before he gives up on it. Shimmery golden eyes keep lurking right behind his thoughts. There’s an ache in his jaw, in his hipbones, along the base of his spine that tells him he’s been found and found and found.

Kuroo puts his book down with a smile, and barely even notices when he drifts off to sleep, his head against the wall of the plane.

---

“So…”

“Thanks for flying,” Kuroo smiles graciously to another passenger who ignores him as they disembark. “So what?” He murmurs from the corner of his mouth to Oikawa.   

“So – Have a good day!” Oikawa beams at a little girl in a way that makes Kuroo want to kick him. The girl beams back, skipping out the plane, her hand in her mother’s. "So, did you manage to convince anyone to join you? I know it’s getting a bit difficult for you these days, Tetsu-chan, and that hair really makes it impossible to tell.”

They both smile in unison, the same polished, patronising little quirk as the phone-fuck who kept calling for a steward through the flight leaves the plane. Surprisingly, he’s still on his phone. Kuroo wants to throw his stupid heavy sports bag out the door and watch it hit the tarmac.

“It’s not that hard. Didn’t see any of the national team leave their seats before I had to help Bokuto with something at the front,” Kuroo smiles blandly, waiting for Oikawa’s tut of disgust at having lost.

It doesn’t come.

“Hm, maybe you should have looked a bit harder.”

Kuroo cricks his neck with how fast he turns to stare at Oikawa. “What?!”

There’s no time to get an answer, because it’s that moment that the volleyball team choose to make their way to the exit, low-level chatter swimming between them (and a couple of louder-level arguments from the Hinata-Kageyama duo at the front of the pack).

Kuroo gets his answer anyway. Oikawa almost preens as one of the coaches tries to make his way past, a shorter dude with spiky black hair, intense eyes.

“Thanks for flying with us, Iwa-chan,” he sings, far too smug and self-satisfied for this to be anything but a hook-up partner, and Kuroo can’t help the smirk on his own face as Iwa-chan looks like his eyes are going to bulge out of his head. Oikawa’s always had a type. And it's usually the type that looks like they can't decide between wanting to grind his face into a wall or kiss him like they'll never let him go.

There’s also the low-level relief building in his chest. Because there really isn’t anything quite so joyous as throwing someone’s own words in their face.

Bokuto’s at the back of the group. He’s the last one, in fact, which isn’t what Kuroo would have expected of him at all. He pauses when he gets to the door. He stares at Kuroo, like he wants to say something.

“I –“ He breaks off, choking on his own words. Kuroo stares at him, a little bit shocked. Every growing moment is more than he expected to have with this man ever again.

Taking pity on him, Kuroo clears his throat. “Thank you for flying with us,” he says, a small little smile. An easy out, if Bokuto wants it.

Bokuto doesn’t take it. His face resolves. “I-“

“Bokkun! You coming or not?” Miya calls from outside the plane, sounding kind of pissed.

And then, with a final, regretful glance, he’s gone. Like he should be.  Kuroo tries not to let himself get too broken up about it.

“Awh, Kuro-chan. You look sad. And you have to go back to economy as well, now…” Oikawa sounds far too smug.

The memory of the flight, and the look on Oikawa’s face when he reminds him, “I thought your words were the first one to convince an athlete to join the mile high club? I don’t remember you saying anything about an athlete trainer," are just about enough to keep his mood from dismal as the two of them go about cleaning up the cabin. He's in half a mind to never have sex again if it leaves him this miserable. He's not supposed to miss Bokuto, he reminds himself. He knew what the deal would be going in.

Somehow, the constant reminders don't help. His mood continues to crash.

At least, until he’s leaving the plane half an hour later, neither he nor Oikawa having the energy to really even argue as they pull their little travel cases - hopefully - towards a better hotel than the last. 

Except there’s someone waiting. He can see that from the end of the little corridor which connects the airport to the plane. Someone’s waiting in the gate. Someone pretty tall.

They get closer, and Kuroo doesn’t really know what to make of the way his heart’s sitting in his throat. 

He glances at Oikawa and sees the shrewd, calculating look on his face. Oikawa’s currently just staring at Bokuto, his eyes narrowed. 

Bokuto, on the other hand, is just staring at Kuroo. “You still didn’t give me your name.” He says, determined, the same intense direction in his limbs as when he walked Kuroo back against the bathroom counter. 

Kuroo blinks. “You still didn’t listen to the landing announcement,” he says, smiling a little at the furrow that forms in Bokuto’s eyebrows. He wonders vaguely where the rest of the team has gone. He thinks vaguely, that he doesn’t really care.

Bokuto waited. Bokuto waited for him.

“Eurgh, you’re so annoying!” Bokuto groans, staring at the ceiling. “Can you just - you’re mad hot, and you’re really funny, and that was the best sex I’ve had in like, years, and I know you probably get asked this all the time because you’re. You know.” He paused, gesturing up and down Kuroo with a frustrated look on his face, “But do you wanna...”

“You after round two?” Kuroo asks, lowered eyelids and a tease in his voice, because it’s always been easier to deflect with a joke. He’s honestly still trying to get his head around mad hot and the sweet little way that Bokuto’s nervously tugging at his own sleeves. 

“Yes!” Bokuto says, and Oikawa snorts with laughter next to him when Kuroo raises an eyebrow. “I mean, fuck, no, not just that, but like. Yeah? But I want to take you out for dinner first and make you do that ugly laugh again and see the way you wake up after, and uh.” He licks his lips, eyes flicking over Kuroo restlessly. “Is this working at all? Do I sound really stupid?” 

“Yes,” Oikawa mutters under his breath. Kuroo pretends he doesn’t hear him. He’s somewhere up near cloud number nine. 

He lets the smile he’s feeling tug at his lips. “It’s Kuroo.” There’s something really quite special settling on Bokuto’s face by the time he gets to saying “Kuroo Tetsurou.”

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” Bokuto says, delighted, the sounds brash and brave and worshipful in his mouth, “Do you wanna get dinner with me tonight?” 

This should not be happening. This is Bokuto Koutarou, his celebrity crush through university, gold medallist, ranked in every Who’s who in world volleyball for the last consecutive five years. Bokuto Koutarou who had him gasping at forty thousand feet.

Kuroo lets the, “Yes,” spill off his lips, the smile just getting wider, and lets himself be pretty happy that it’s happening anyway.