Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6141949.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime/Oikawa_Tooru
  Character:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime, Oikawa_Tooru
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Exhibitionism, Semi-Public_Sex, Blow_Jobs, No
      Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-27 Words: 2662
****** Exhibition ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Oikawa might not be an exhibitionist -- this wasn’t his idea -- but
     he’s not so opposed to the idea to pull away when Iwaizumi catches
     him around the corner of the storage closet after their practice
     match, closes a bruising grip around his wrist and drags him sideways
     into the shadows of the unlit room." Oikawa's not an exhibitionist
     but he's not about to complain when Iwaizumi shows some signs of
     being one.
It’s not that Oikawa’s an exhibitionist. Far from it; he’s completely happy to
have Iwaizumi all to himself in the familiar space of his bedroom or Iwaizumi’s
living room, doesn’t even begrudge the few seconds it takes to double-check
that the door is locked before they proceed into anything more involved than
kissing. The only gaze that Oikawa cares about having on him is Iwaizumi’s, and
as long as the full weight of the other’s dark stare is fixed solely on him,
they could be the last people alive in the world for all that Oikawa cares.
It’s just. Well. Oikawa might not be an exhibitionist -- this wasn’t his idea -
- but he’s not so opposed to the idea to pull away when Iwaizumi catches him
around the corner of the storage closet after their practice match and closes a
bruising grip around his wrist to drag him sideways into the shadows of the
unlit room.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, grinning his way into the edge of a laugh at whatever
Iwaizumi wants from him. “I never figured you’d be into this kind of risky
behavior.”
He’s joking. Oikawa’s certain, as the words leave his lips, that he’s going to
get a glower for the suggestion, maybe the weight of an insincere punch against
the resistance of his bicep. But when he blinks at Iwaizumi the shadows in the
other’s eyes are nothing like anger, and Oikawa’s breathing catches and stalls
into sudden realization in the moment before Iwaizumi’s hands are on his
shoulders and shoving him back against the side of the closet. Oikawa stumbles
backwards, nearly tripping as his heel catches some unseen equipment, but
Iwaizumi’s hold is unbreakable on his shoulders and rushing him backwards and
then his back runs up against the wall, the air leaving his lungs in a
breathless rush at the impact, and Iwaizumi’s mouth is on his before he has
time to gasp a new inhale.
Oikawa’s not sure what he did to earn this. Exhibitionism aside, it usually
takes deliberate effort to drive Iwaizumi into the kind of desperate heat that
he’s currently crushing to Oikawa’s mouth and digging into the shadow of
fingerprints at his waist. It feels a little like being attacked, as if
Iwaizumi is trying to have a fight with Oikawa’s complete lack of resistance,
or maybe as if Oikawa is some delicious treat for which Iwaizumi has lost all
self-control. Oikawa doesn’t get a say in the matter, not really; all he can do
is submit, let Iwaizumi steal the breath from his lungs with the heat of his
mouth, let the long line of Iwaizumi’s body pin him back against the wall until
the weight of it is too much to feel in individual pieces. There’s just heat,
the damp of sweat hanging heavy in Iwaizumi’s uniform and the stick of the bare
skin of his calf catching at Oikawa’s, his hands shoving up to drag the other’s
shirt loose of the edge of his shorts to make space for his fingers against
Oikawa’s waist.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa manages once Iwaizumi is working against the sweat-slick at
his throat, kissing the salt away from his skin as Oikawa tilts his head back
to give him better access. “What brought this on?” He’s trying for teasing,
attempting the sing-songy lilt that usually fires Iwaizumi to anger in other
situations, but he’s not sure how well he succeeds; it’s hard to find the
tension to fit under the words when his whole body is trying to melt against
the hard press of Iwaizumi’s against him. “Could you not wait until we made it
home?”
“Shut up,” Iwaizumi growls into Oikawa’s shoulder. The words rumble warning
like thunder against the other’s collarbone. “Someone will hear.”
“I’m being quiet,” Oikawa protests. He thinks he is, anyway. It’s hard to judge
the sound of his own voice when his blood is rushing so loud in his ears, but
he can still hear the pattern of conversation from the court as the rest of the
team works to disassemble the net for the evening. “Isn’t that part of the fun
of this, anyway?”
“This isn’t fun,” Iwaizumi informs him as his hand slides up Oikawa’s waist, as
his fingers spread to catch the rhythm of Oikawa’s heartbeat against his palm.
“This is risky.”
“And fun,” Oikawa presses. “Isn’t that the thrill of exhibitionism, Iwa-chan?”
Iwaizumi’s fingers tighten, dig pressure against Oikawa’s skin; Oikawa shivers
with the friction, feels the heat rush to his half-hard cock in a single
discrete unit of arousal. “Or is there something else that appeals to you?”
Iwaizumi draws back at that. His eyes look black, between his dark-blown pupils
and the shadows of the dim-lit space; his mouth is damp, his lips visibly
flushed even with a frown tightening the curve of them. “What the hell are you
talking about? I’m not an exhibitionist.”
“Aren’t you?” Oikawa asks. He can’t see past the door to the bright lighting of
the practice court, but he tilts his head anyway, enough to draw Iwaizumi’s
attention out to the voices of their teammates and the sound of shoes squeaking
on the floor. “What exactly is this, then?” Iwaizumi’s frown deepens, drawing a
crease in his forehead in its wake, but his chin is coming down into the angle
that always looks like a dare to Oikawa, and Oikawa’s talking faster in spite
of his better judgment, fluttering his eyelashes into flirtation as his mouth
catches into a smirk. “Was I just too sexy for you to wait until we got home?”
Iwaizumi’s fingers tighten harder at Oikawa’s hips but Oikawa just lets himself
sag warm against the wall, lets the drag of Iwaizumi’s hold at his hands draw
him forward and closer to the other’s body.
“I understand,” he continues, looking up through his lashes at Iwaizumi’s
glare, letting his voice drop into the lowest purr he can muster while still
keeping to the necessity of a whisper. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my mind out
of the gutter if I were dating me either.”
“Shut up,” Iwaizumi growls.
“No one will hear me,” Oikawa tells him, reaching out to fit his fingers inside
the elastic of Iwaizumi’s shorts and tugging suggestion against the resistance
of the fabric. “I could suck your cock right here, I bet we could get away with
it.” He shifts his knee, rocks his weight forward to press against the front of
Iwaizumi’s shorts; Iwaizumi hisses, pulling back from the weight, but Oikawa
doesn’t need to feel the heat to see the way the thin fabric is tenting around
the shape of Iwaizumi hard on the other side. “You want it, don’t you?” Oikawa
grins, lets his head weight heavy to the side; Iwaizumi’s gaze trips away from
his face, slides sideways to land against his throat instead, and Oikawa keeps
talking as he dips his fingers farther past the edge of Iwaizumi’s shorts.
“It’s understandable, you know, you’re dating me. I can see why waiting even
fifteen minutes would be impossible. How do you survive the day at all?”
“Shut up,” Iwaizumi snaps, and his hand draws away from Oikawa’s chest, swings
out to shove the other’s touch free of his clothes. Oikawa lets his hold go,
his breathing stuttering into a laugh in his chest, and he’s ready to
straighten, ready to collect himself so they can go back out to the
illumination of the gym before making their way home to resume what Iwaizumi
started. But Iwaizumi’s grip at his hip doesn’t ease, and Iwaizumi’s moving but
not towards the door, and then he’s dropping to his knees and Oikawa’s whole
body is shuddering into startled tension at the suggestion made just by the
other’s position in front of him.
He has to lick his lips to find coherency, has to swallow twice before his
throat will ease enough to let him speak. “Iwa-chan?” The teasing lilt of his
voice is gone, any deliberate structure to the sound melted away; now it’s all
he can do to keep it quiet, he can hear the sound shuddering into warbling
uncertainty in his throat.
“Close your damn mouth,” Iwaizumi tells him. His other hand comes out, closes
against Oikawa’s other hip; Oikawa hears himself make a high, whimpering note
of panic at the heat that rushes through him, that flushes his cock to visible
hardness against the front of his shorts. Iwaizumi’s hard too -- Oikawa can
still see the shape of him inside his clothes, even as he’s kneeling on the
floor -- but the look he gives Oikawa somehow ignores this fact entirely,
prickles self-consciousness all down Oikawa’s spine as if he’s somehow wrong
for being so responsive to the heat of Iwaizumi’s mouth on his lips and against
his throat.
“I’m not an exhibitionist,” Iwaizumi says, so low the sound purrs like a threat
through Oikawa’s veins. Oikawa can feel his eyes going wider, his mouth coming
open on the complete lack of air in his throat, and Iwaizumi is still staring
at him, his eyes dark and endless and shadowed with the same insistence grating
hard in his throat. “I can wait until we get home.”
“Iwa-chan” Oikawa starts, and “Shut up” Iwaizumi snaps back at him, not missing
a beat in the rhythm of his speech. “I can wait.” He leans closer, tightens his
hold; Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s thumbs sliding over the edge of bone, digging
in hard against the soft valleys just along the line of his hips. “You’re the
one who’s always so impatient.”
Oikawa opens his mouth to say something, somehow, to protest this patently
false claim or to ask again what Iwaizumi is intending, to get some traction on
the reeling confusion of the moment. But Iwaizumi looks away from his face and
down to his shorts instead, and then he’s leaning in and pressing his mouth to
the fabric and Oikawa’s speech evaporates into a whimper that is mostly shock
and all heat. Iwaizumi looks up through his hair to meet Oikawa’s gaze, cutting
a glare at him that says quiet better than his occupied mouth could do, and
then he’s turning his head sideways, shifting his angle to better press his
mouth to the outline of Oikawa’s cock through his shorts.
Oikawa can’t breathe. His heart is pounding with too-much adrenaline, shock
predominant in his mind but running a losing race with arousal, all of it
overlaid with panic at the possibility of getting caught. There are still
voices in the other room, still the skid of footsteps as proof that they’re out
of range of interruption for now, but the gym isn’t so big that it can’t be
crossed in a few seconds and Oikawa is certain he needs more time than that to
collect himself. Some part of his mind is scrambling, calculating how much
warning they might have, forming some excuse for the flush on his cheeks and
the tremble in his knees, hoping that Iwaizumi will hear any approaching
teammembers with enough warning to get his mouth off Oikawa’s clothes and get
back on his feet. Otherwise, Oikawa thinks dizzily, there’s not much he can do;
even the best actor in the world wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of his
best friend on his knees in front of him sucking damp against the heat of his
erection through his uniform shorts. The idea makes Oikawa feel slightly
hysterical, bubbles irrepressible laughter in the back of his throat; he claps
a hand over his mouth, hisses air past the restraint on his breathing, and
Iwaizumi just keeps moving, opening his mouth wider so he can lick against
Oikawa’s clothes. Oikawa can feel the heat of his mouth even with the barrier
of fabric between them, and then Iwaizumi’s tongue presses a seam against the
head of his cock and Oikawa’s hips jerk forward of their own accord, seeking
out more of the shivering friction the pressure unwinds up his spine. Iwaizumi
makes some sound wordless and low in his throat, and then he does it again,
harder, sliding his tongue with unerring precision to drag friction and heat
over the head of Oikawa’s cock. Oikawa’s shorts are going wet, clinging closer
to his skin with each pass of the other’s tongue, and his attention is skidding
out, even the distant sound of shoes on the gym floor insufficient to drag his
focus back to where it should be. Iwaizumi’s hands are hard at his hips,
Iwaizumi’s mouth is working the weight of his clothing so close it presses
skin-tight to Oikawa’s cock, and then he tightens his lips and starts to suck
and Oikawa whimpers against the weight of his palm, tilts his head back against
the wall and stares unseeing at the dark of the ceiling. He has his other arm
pressed flat against the wall, he realizes, his fingers tensing against the
support like he can hold himself steady, and Iwaizumi is still sucking over
him, catching his mouth against the head of Oikawa’s cock and pulling sensation
up the other’s spine with the press of his lips. Oikawa’s shaking, his legs
threatening collapse and his back arching, and then Iwaizumi opens his mouth
wider, wide enough that the very edge of his teeth skims Oikawa’s shorts, and
Oikawa jerks and comes, his cock spilling wet against the clinging weight of
his shorts as his whole body shakes itself into breathless, ecstatic heat.
Iwaizumi keeps sucking against him, the minimal friction of his mouth enough to
draw Oikawa through shuddering waves of pleasure, until when he finally does
pull away it’s all Oikawa can do to keep his feet under him even with the
support of the wall at his shoulders.
“See,” Iwaizumi growls as he pushes to his feet, as he steps in close enough to
shove Oikawa’s trembling body back against the wall. Oikawa grabs for
Iwaizumi’s shoulder to hold himself up, tries to blink his gaze back into focus
around the shivery aftershocks that keep hitting him; Iwaizumi is staring at
him, his eyes night-black from this close up and his mouth flushed dark and so
wet it draws Oikawa’s gaze helplessly down. He can watch it form the shape of
sounds, can read Iwaizumi’s speech a heartbeat before he hears it just from the
curve of the other’s lips. “Now who’s the impatient one.”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa manages, his voice wobbling in the back of his throat. “You.
I.”
“Later,” Iwaizumi tells him. “By the time we get back you’ll be ready again,
right?” He leans close, crushes his mouth flush to Oikawa’s; Oikawa’s whimper
is lost to the inside of Iwaizumi’s mouth, the sound muffled out of hearing by
the other’s lips. By the time Iwaizumi pulls away Oikawa is speechless again,
his voice stolen by the drag of Iwaizumi’s mouth and the pant of his close-up
breathing.
“Later,” Iwaizumi repeats, and then he’s stepping back, letting his hold on
Oikawa’s hips go and reaching for his shorts so he can adjust himself into
something like decency. Oikawa watches Iwaizumi look out to the rest of the
gym, can see the consideration in his eyes as he gauges their situation before
glancing back.
“Pull yourself together and come back out in a few minutes,” Iwaizumi tells
him. “I’ll walk home with you after we’re done cleaning up.”
“Okay,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi moves away without looking back, striding out
into the gym with nothing more noticeable than a flush on his cheeks to say
what they’ve been doing. Oikawa’s shorts are dark enough that the wet doesn’t
show up against the fabric, he finds when he investigates; still, he’s fairly
sure the tremble in his stride and the speed of his breathing will make him
significantly more suspicious than Iwaizumi to anyone who’s looking too
closely.
Oikawa finds he doesn’t particularly mind the idea. Maybe he is a little bit of
an exhibitionist, after all.
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