Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3513080.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime/Oikawa_Tooru
  Character:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime, Oikawa_Tooru
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Living_Together, Crossdressing, Crossdressing
      Kink, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Attempted
      Seduction, Blow_Jobs
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-20 Words: 2871
****** Anticipated ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "The skirt seems like a fantastic idea in Oikawa’s head." Oikawa
     tries a new method of seduction on Iwaizumi, and it proves effective,
     though not as he expected it would be.
The skirt seems like a fantastic idea in Oikawa’s head.
He picked up the idea from a manga, originally, one of the ones Iwaizumi
refuses to read because they’re ‘too unrealistic to even be sexy, how can
you read shit like that?’ But the skirt was a novel concept, certainly doing
amazing things for the legs of the character in the manga, and Oikawa knows
with no question in his mind that of his many appealing traits his legs are a
front-runner for best.
He wants it to be a surprise, manages to procure himself not just a skirt but
in fact a full girl’s uniform without Iwaizumi being any the wiser. Then it’s
just a matter of waiting for the opportune moment, when they have an afternoon
free of any additional plans and Iwaizumi is caught up in a book but not so
entranced that he’ll be irritated to be interrupted. Oikawa leaves the other to
his book, slips off to the bedroom with some half-formed excuse -- it doesn’t
matter, Iwaizumi won’t be listening to the details anyway -- before locking the
door so he can change in peace.
It’s hardly a difficult process. The pieces of the uniform are unfamiliar but
it’s not hard to fit the stocking up over his legs or to zip the skirt up
around his hips. The shirt is easy, just one of his own, and the bow at the
throat far easier to manage than a boy’s necktie would be. Oikawa doesn’t need
to check the mirror to make sure he looks good -- he knows without the
reassurance of his reflection -- but he does anyway, pauses before the glass so
he can shape his lips into a pout, can briefly imagine Iwaizumi’s reaction to
seeing him.
Then he grins at himself, the innocent expression at his lips melting away into
sharp-edged anticipation, and unlocks the door to emerge.
Iwaizumi doesn’t look up right away. Oikawa was expecting that; there’s no
particular reason he should drop his attention from his book, after all. So he
hesitates in the doorway to the living room, reaching out to rest his
fingertips on the doorframe like he’s uncertain of his welcome, and when he
says “Iwa-chan?” it’s in the sweetest tone he can muster.
“What do you want?” Iwaizumi says as he looks up. He finishes the sentence
without distraction, but Oikawa can see the flicker of surprise behind his
eyes, the shift of his gaze as he looks away from Oikawa’s face to take in the
rest of him. Oikawa can feel that stare lingering at the tops of the thigh-high
socks, just against the edge of the skirt, tips his knee in to highlight the
narrow strip of skin.
“I was hoping you’d have time to play with me,” he says, and Iwaizumi’s not
looking at his face but Oikawa bats his eyelashes anyway, lifts his free hand
to rest in an imitation of nervousness at the back of his neck. “I wanted to
have some fun, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi closes his book carefully, reaches out to set it on the coffee table
without looking away from Oikawa’s legs. “What are you wearing?”
Oikawa can’t quite place that tone. It’s somewhere between true irritation and
the appearance of it, half defensive denial of arousal and half actual
frustration. It doesn’t matter; irritated Iwaizumi is really just as good as
turned-on Iwaizumi, as long as the other is paying attention to Oikawa. He lets
his lip fall into his mirror-practiced pout, ducks his head to blink up through
his lashes.
“Don’t you like it?” he asks. Iwaizumi gets to his feet, the motion too smooth
to be deliberately threatening but still enough to tighten a knot of heat low
in Oikawa’s stomach, to send a rush of blood to his cock so it presses tight
against the front of the panties he’s wearing under the skirt. His voice
cracks, tries to drop low and sultry, and it’s only with effort that Oikawa
sustains the high uncertainty of his adopted tone. “I thought we could try
something new.” Iwaizumi is coming closer, now, his shoulders looking broader
with every step, and Oikawa’s throat is tensing, his body flushing hot
underneath the unfamiliar weight of the clothes. “If you turn me around you
could pretend I’m a girl.”
Iwaizumi’s eyes come up at that, dark and so shadowed Oikawa’s throat closes
entirely, any attempt at further speech rendered completely futile. His hand
comes out, fingers closing against the front of Oikawa’s shirt, gentle at first
but tightening until he has a fist of the fabric, is tugging the edge of the
cloth loose of the skirt. His expression is still unreadable, impossible
darkness in his eyes hiding whatever his reaction is, and when he speaks his
voice is absent any cues as well, except for the octave-dropping rumble that
says whatever he is feeling he is feeling intensely.
“Pretend you’re a girl.” His hand pulls, the front of the shirt coming loose
entirely, and Oikawa is breathing hard, now, there’s no acting at all to how
fast his lungs are working on the air gone thick with heat around him. “You
think that’s what I’d like?” The hand at Oikawa’s shirt goes slack, Iwaizumi’s
fingers loosening, and for a moment Oikawa thinks maybe this is irritation,
maybe he’ll have to take the skirt off and get on his knees to offer apology
before Iwaizumi will give him what he wants.
“Let me be perfectly clear.” Iwaizumi looks down again, his gaze lingering
against the rumpled edge of Oikawa’s shirt, the fall of the cloth against the
pattern of the skirt. “As far as I’m concerned, the best part of you in a skirt
is that it lets me get at your cock faster.” His fingers drop the shirt
entirely, the heat of his palm cupping against Oikawa’s length through the fall
of the fabric, and all the air in Oikawa’s lungs leaves him in a rush as his
knees try to buckle. He grabs at Iwaizumi’s shoulder, trying to steady his
balance, but the other is dropping away, dipping down to land on his knees in
front of the other boy so Oikawa’s fingers catch at his hair instead of his
shoulder. Oikawa stares at him for a moment, trying to find his balance and his
composure at once, but if his movements are stalled Iwaizumi’s aren’t. His
hands are hot against Oikawa’s thighs, shoving roughly at the skirt to flip it
up and out of the way, and then he ducks in without any warning at all to press
his mouth to Oikawa’s flushed cock without bothering to pull the panties aside.
Oikawa chokes, rocks forward like his sense of gravity is realigning itself to
Iwaizumi instead of the floor, his fingers tightening on the frame in a last
desperate effort to hold himself up. Iwaizumi’s mouth is hot, wet enough that
it dampens the fabric instantly and makes it feel even thinner than it was,
until when he licks up against the shape of the other boy through the cloth
Oikawa can feel the drag translated perfectly through the friction against him.
There’s a rush of heat along his spine, spilling over to pool low in his
stomach, and his cock twitches against the cloth, a pulse of heat spilling pre-
come to soak against the fabric.
“You’re fucking filthy,” Iwaizumi says without pulling away, growling the words
into Oikawa’s hip as he tightens his fingers into a bracing hold against the
other’s waist. When he comes in again it’s more deliberate, pressing closer so
he can suck heat against Oikawa’s length through the damp catch of cloth.
Oikawa can feel his expression collapse into heat, his forehead creasing on the
intensity of the sensation rushing through him, until when he whimpers “Iwa-
chan” it sounds more like pleading than encouragement.
Iwaizumi stays where he is for a moment, an infinity, not nearly long enough;
Oikawa is shaking by the time he pulls back, clinging to Iwaizumi’s hair and
the door like desperation alone will keep him upright, unwilling to move to a
more stable position. When the hand at his hip pulls he stumbles forward as
Iwaizumi stands, twisting under the drag of Iwaizumi’s hands until the other is
pressed against his back, holding him up by an arm around Oikawa’s waist and a
hand pressing fingerprints into his hip. Oikawa can feel the heat of Iwaizumi’s
cock pressed against him clear through the other’s jeans, the better when
Iwaizumi rocks forward to grinds himself against Oikawa’s ass through the
skirt.
“Like I want a girl,” Iwaizumi growls, the word turning to disbelief on his
tongue. His hand slides up, shoves at Oikawa’s shoulder. “Bend over.”
Oikawa does. The couch is in front of him, the edge in easy reach; he tightens
his fingers against the support, shifts his feet to steady his balance, and
arches his back, dropping his shoulders back so his spine curves into a
suggestion for Iwaizumi. The hand at his shoulder leaves, fingers digging in
against the back of his thighs instead before Iwaizumi pushes up, inverts the
skirt so it’s against Oikawa’s back instead of half-covering his legs. The
movement makes Oikawa tremble, anticipation burning hot under his skin, and
Iwaizumi’s fingers are dragging against his hips, pulling the panties down and
away to leave him stripped for the other’s gaze. Oikawa’s breath hitches as the
cloth catches at his cock for a moment, drags sensation against him before
coming free, but Iwaizumi doesn’t reach around to touch him. He’s bracing
Oikawa’s legs, instead, his thumbs digging in hard against the high inside of
the other’s thighs as he drops to his knees, and Oikawa locks his elbows in
expectation a moment before Iwaizumi’s mouth presses in against the very top
edge of his leg, teeth scraping a bruise into the skin with practiced
efficiency.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Iwaizumi hisses, his breath blowing hot against
Oikawa’s skin. “Don’t try to seduce me by pretending to be someone else.”
Another bite, this one on the other side, hard enough that Oikawa hisses at the
leading edge of pain before it eases into another rush of heat in his blood and
against his cock. “If I wanted a girl I’d be with a girl.”
Oikawa wants to offer some mouthy response, some purring pleasure at the
implied desire in that sentence. But Iwaizumi is breathing against him again,
his exhales coming warm on sensitive skin, and Oikawa can’t find the words
before Iwaizumi’s tongue slides hot against his entrance. He shudders instead,
the anticipation running through his body like a shock, and Iwaizumi digs his
thumbs against Oikawa’s thighs and presses inside the other boy. Oikawa jerks,
his fingers pressing in hard against the couch, and Iwaizumi makes a purring
noise against him and thrusts his tongue in deeper without giving Oikawa a
chance to catch his breath. The pressure is hot, slick and wet and
overwhelming, until all Oikawa can do is lean forward, let his forearms fall
against the back of the couch and gasp for air while Iwaizumi works him open.
His cock is slick again, thrumming with heat and a need for friction, but
Oikawa can’t trust his balance enough to reach down himself and Iwaizumi’s
hands are still against his legs, his fingers skimming the tops of the
stockings pulled high against the other’s thighs. Oikawa slouches against the
couch instead, lets the weight of his head hang unresisting as his breathing
sticks itself into whimpering moans in the back of his throat, until he feels
more bereft than expectant when Iwaizumi pulls away.
The hands leave his legs; Oikawa can hear Iwaizumi getting to his feet, the
sound of denim catching on itself as he stands. Iwaizumi’s breathing hard,
Oikawa can hear the too-loud sound of his inhales, but he doesn’t bother
lifting his head; it’s easier to shut his eyes, to focus on the sound of metal
on fabric, the click of a zipper coming open. Then the touch is back, a hand
shoving hard against the curve of Oikawa’s back as if to brace him, and
Iwaizumi’s talking again, the words sounding idle and distracted in his throat.
“You don’t look like a girl,” he growls. There’s heat against Oikawa’s skin,
the slick catch of Iwaizumi’s cock accidentally bumping against him, and he
shudders, his braced-out shoulders trembling with the heat that runs out along
his skin. “You look like you.” Iwaizumi’s voice drops the last word into a
growl, dark and shadowed with appreciation, and he’s pressing in against
Oikawa, now, the careful pressure that says he’s still lining himself up.
Oikawa takes a breath, tension winding into a knot between his shoulders, and
then Iwaizumi is rocking forward, pushing himself inside Oikawa with a motion
made smooth with practice. Oikawa groans, satisfaction and aching want tangling
inextricably in his throat, and Iwaizumi leans in over him, the hand at his
back pressing in while the other slides along his hip to bump against his cock.
Iwaizumi’s fingers tighten against Oikawa’s length as he thrusts into him, the
heat of his cock and the heat of his fingers falling into rhythm, and Oikawa
shoves against the couch to rock himself back for more. There’s a laugh against
his shoulder, a burst of sound involuntary and sincere, and Iwaizumi starts
moving, jerking up over the other with less grace than enthusiasm.
It doesn’t matter. Oikawa is shaking, all his body trembling with gratitude for
the friction against his length, and every thrust of Iwaizumi’s hips jolts
another rush of heat into his blood, spills sound up from his throat until
every moan sounds like the syllables of “Iwa-chan” over and over, falling into
a chant in time with the other’s movements. The skirt is swinging against
Oikawa’s legs, Iwazumi’s movements rocking the other forward so the fabric
sways in time with them, and Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s strokes over him going
slick and uneven. He leans in against the couch, lets his shoulders slump so he
can press his forehead against his arms, and Iwaizumi jerks over him faster,
digs his thumb in on every stroke so Oikawa can feel the pressure of
satisfaction collecting taut in his stomach. The lower angle lets Iwaizumi sink
in deeper, drive in a little harder on each thrust, and Oikawa is gasping, he
can’t see straight for the distracting rhythm of Iwaizumi pressing into him on
each breath.
“Fuck,” he manages, his hand tightening against his own elbow until the nails
dig into his skin. “Iwa-- Iwa-chan--”
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi growls over him, the words ruffling warm against Oikawa’s
hair. “Come onto your stupid skirt” and Oikawa does, jolts and shudders and
groans himself into the wave of heat that washes over him. He’s jerking into
Iwaizumi’s hold, desperate unformed thrusts of his hips to fuck himself against
the other’s hand, and Iwaizumi is gasping over him and starting to shake and
Oikawa can’t care, barely notices when Iwaizumi’s thrusts go unsteady and
arrhythmic with heat. Iwaizumi makes a sound, a moan shaped around a growl, and
then he’s coming too, Oikawa can feel the involuntary tension curling into the
hold on him while he’s still shivering in the aftershocks of his own orgasm.
There’s a breath against his hair, the shift of weight, and Iwaizumi’s mouth is
at the back of Oikawa’s neck, his lips pressing a kiss into the skin while he’s
still trembling with sensation.
Oikawa is still smiling when Iwaizumi pulls back and lets his hold go so he can
pull his jeans back into place. Without the heat of the other’s body or his own
desire to distract him Oikawa can feel how sticky he is, can feel the faint
ache of bruising bite marks against the back of his legs and the damp of the
skirt around his hips. When he pushes up off the couch his arm hurts too, the
red indents of fingernails left to speak to his distraction of moments before.
“So,” Oikawa says, reaching out to push the skirt back into place over his
hips. He steps out of the panties entirely rather than trying to pull them back
up, drags a hand through his hair before he turns around. Iwaizumi is watching
him, arms crossed and looking almost completely pulled-together but for the
high flush of pleasure still clinging to his cheeks and the too-fast past of
his breathing. Oikawa smiles, slow and careful and sincere, tips his head to
the slide as he leans back against the support of the couch and crosses his
ankles with deliberate elegance. “You do like the skirt, Iwa-chan?”
Oikawa’s prepared for the glare he gets in response to this, is drowning out
Iwaizumi’s growl with a laugh as the other steps in to drag him in by the front
of his rumpled shirt. It’s more than worth it for the way Iwaizumi’s teeth drag
against his lip, the way the other licks against his mouth like he’s trying to
steal the breath straight out of his lungs.
Oikawa can’t always predict Iwaizumi’s reactions, but he can always count on
them being enjoyable.
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