Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5396057.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime/Oikawa_Tooru
  Character:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime, Oikawa_Tooru
  Additional Tags:
      Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Begging, Name-Calling, Experimental_Style, Porn
      with_Feelings, Bottom_Iwaizumi_Hajime, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot,
      Explicit_Language
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-10 Words: 2046
****** plaisir ******
by aischrolatry
Summary
     “Be polite, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, and smiles. It is thin-lipped,
     narrow-eyed, and vicious. “Say please, won’t you?”
Notes
     written while I was terribly sleep deprived so I don't know if this
     makes sense, but I sort of like it (maybe bc I am still sleep
     deprived)
See the end of the work for more notes
Finger-deep and steady; Oikawa breathes in and Iwaizumi pants out, spine
arching like the overhead pass he likes best. God, Oikawa thinks, tongue thick
and dry.
“Okay,” Iwaizumi says, quiet enough to disguise the trembling in his throat. He
tries again: “Okay,” he says, lotion sliding down his thighs and disappearing
into the folds of his black boxers, peeking out from under the curve of his
butt, “one more.”
Oikawa’s tongue, too hot against the chill of the room, traces his lower lip.
It catches onto the skin, too dry to agree with his owner’s wishes, but Oikawa
is nothing if not stupidly stubborn. He swallows, forces another mouthful of
saliva, and finishes. Begins as well, slow and careful.
Iwaizumi goes taut with the third knuckle, rough-skinned hands gripping at his
bed covers. Such a good boy, Iwaizumi is, always with his bed done and his room
clean -- Oikawa shifts, rumples the bedding, feels sickly satisfied. The sound
Iwaizumi makes, a thing full of breath and gritted teeth, mirrors the emotions
inside Oikawa, and he thinks, god, and opens his fingers just so.
“Fuck,” Iwaizumi groans, pressing the back of his head into his pillow like he
wants to vanish into it. “Fuck,” and it’s the second most beautiful thing
Oikawa’s heard him say. He pushes in, crooks a little, and Iwaizumi’s throat is
bared, his adam’s apple bobbing. The name he calls out is silent, but Oikawa
hears it anyway, and grins down at him.
“Ah,” he sighs, leaning over because he can, “so pretty, Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi’s stomach ripples, then stills - a knot of muscle ready to undo
itself. Oikawa straightens his fingers, tipping him away from orgasm, and grins
at the exhalation, full of steam and frustration.
“Fuck off, asshole,” Iwaizumi says, pink-faced and bright-eyed. Oikawa licks at
his upper lip, shows him the exact degree of control he has over his own
tongue, and then leans back, sits, and waits. Iwaizumi’s thighs are glistening,
his dick is twitching, and Oikawa drinks the moment, savors it. His mouth is
wet again.
“And waste this chance? No way, no way,” Oikawa replies. “After Iwa-chan’s
parents so graciously decided to take a trip with the neighborhood’s--”
“Shut - up - “ Iwaizumi grits out, flushing redder.
“And after Iwa-chan so graciously invited me over to -- “
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi cuts in, the heat in his eyes flashing a scalded warning.
Oikawa recognizes it, and pulls back graciously, accepting temporary defeat.
“Mm?” he asks, syrupy and innocent, but crooks his fingers again, presses them
deep and wide and Iwaizumi’s back goes likes this: tense and trembling and then
curling into itself, the ridges of sturdy ribs greeting Oikawa’s eyes. God,
Oikawa thinks, voracious, god, yes, and keeps at it until Iwaizumi’s toes
follow the rigid motion, until Iwaizumi’s all but drooling on his pillow, eyes
lidded and unseeing.
“Ah,” he sighs, and adds: “this is how I like you best,” without meaning to.
Iwaizumi’s eyes roll back before he can close them, teeth as white as his lower
lip when he bites down. It’s not a complete truth - Oikawa likes Iwaizumi best
as he is, as he exists, not just volatilely emotional and finger-fucked. As he
cuffs Oikawa on the back of the head, as he swallows down tears, as he makes
promises, as he pushes, and pulls, but never lets go.
“That’s enough,” Iwaizumi breathes, from behind the crook of his elbow, and
Oikawa realizes he’s still knuckle-deep into him. Realizes he’s forgotten to
breathe. “Just,” he mutters, and leans a knee against Oikawa’s side.
Oikawa complies. If only to peel Iwaizumi out of his underwear, as damp as it
is dark; if only to revel in the shiver that runs across his body when he pulls
his fingers out of him. But he doesn’t acquiesce in full. You’re only into it
for the chase, Iwaizumi told him once, after Oikawa’s sixth girlfriend, and
only now does he know that it is not the chase he craves. It is the right
prize.
“Just, what?” he asks airily, setter’s hands burrowing into the firm flesh of
Iwaizumi’s thighs, bringing them up and around his own hips.
Iwaizumi’s hand closes into a fist, white-knuckled.
“Don’t fuck with me, jackass,” is what he replies, a little out of breath. His
legs are twitching still, and the head of his dick is as bright as the inside
of his thighs. Oikawa palms his cock and twitches, offers a gasp that sounds
like Iwaizumi’s first name.
It is frustrating enough that Iwaizumi’ arms shoot up to grip at Oikawa’s hair,
but it is an old move, rusted by years of friendship, and Oikawa avoids and
counter-attacks, hands twisting around powerful wrists and slamming down.
“Tsk, tsk, Iwa-chan,” he reproaches, cocking his head. Iwaizumi’s face reddens
under his eyes, that hot gaze like a slap. Oikawa lets it hit, nearly quivering
under its weight, and doesn’t even waver when Iwaizumi tries to buck him off.
“That’s no way to talk to your most precious person.”
“You’re disgusting,” Iwaizumi replies automatically, force of habit, but his
eyes are dark and his breath is stilted, and Oikawa grins with all his teeth,
savoring the anticipation.
“You should be more honest,” he replies, and leans down to suck at his neck. It
is winter but Iwaizumi is still brown, still warm, and Oikawa could just sink
into him and believe summer has returned. He doesn’t. He bites the words he
wants to say into the lean skin of his collarbone and only stops when Iwaizumi
rubs his dick against his thigh.
“I--fuck--I swear to god--”
“Be polite, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, and leans back, hovering above him and
instituting a type of control that could be broken so easily. Then, when
Iwaizumi’s eyes are on his (and only then), he offers a smile. It is thin-
lipped, narrow-eyed, and vicious. “Say please, won’t you?”
And that’s when the heat truly spreads into the pit of his stomach; when
Iwaizumi’s face twists into realization, into remembrance. God, Oikawa thinks,
and grinds down on Iwaizumi’s open legs, opening them, feeling the twitch of
his dick against his.
Iwaizumi remains silent. Oikawa gives him time, pulling hickeys out of him at a
leisurely pace, pushing dampening boxers into bare flesh. Iwaizumi trembles
beneath him, eyes closed and mouth open, and Oikawa is patient when it counts,
but not today. Today, he is selfish, if only because he knows Iwaizumi will
allow it.
“Come on, Iwa-chan. It’s easy,” he murmurs, teeth closing around the shell of
Iwaizumi’s ear. “Like this: please, Tooru,” and he’s not even done before
Iwaizumi bites down a groan and ruts up into him, “fuck me.”
“Fuck off,” Iwaizumi manages somehow, garbled and thick.
Oikawa clicks his tongue, leans back to watch his face.
“No, Hajime,” he says sternly, and Iwaizumi nearly comes undone at the sound of
his name, the muscles of his stomach all twining and stilling and Oikawa nearly
lets him, but then - “I said no, Hajime,” and Iwaizumi closes his eyes, bites
down on his lip, and remains grounded.
“Please,” the other boy breathes, looking absolutely fucked out. Oikawa sighs,
then, the arousal blooming across him like a field of flowers. “Please,” he
says again, for good measure, even though the second time is but a whisper.
“Gladly,” Oikawa whispers back, and slides in with the ease of an old lover.
Iwaizumi’s back arches, his mouth opening with a sigh, his legs tensing around
Oikawa’s stomach. His knees press into Oikawa’s ribs when he bottoms out,
strong enough to make them ache, but Oikawa barely feels anything other than
the warmth and wetness, the rippling shivers. “Mm,” he says, obscenely tracing
his lip, “Hajime, you’re so good to me.”
Iwaizumi groans out something that sounds like a swear, blunt fingernails
tracing the curve of Oikawa’s shoulders and finishing on his elbow. A good
sign-- a great sign-- and Oikawa’s hips shudder into him, disagreeing with the
self-afflicted wait. Iwaizumi’s throat is an angled thing, bobbing and bared.
His dick is wet and rests neatly into the lines of his abs; Oikawa presses his
thumbs into his hipbones to get a grip on something and drives slow.
“Fuck,” Iwaizumi gasps, back arching and hands fisting in his sheets. His
beddings wrinkle beneath them, and Oikawa loves it, always has - because he’s
always been the cause (be it childish wrestling or senseless fucking). “Fuck,”
Iwaizumi gasps, and it is glorious, so Oikawa fucks into him without meaning
to, hard enough that they both slide up the bed. Iwaizumi’s palms smack against
the wood of the headboard, flat and quick, and Oikawa takes the opportunity to
lean over him and spread his legs wider.
Predictably, Iwaizumi reddens, his face twisting with an embarrassment he will
forget about in minutes; Oikawa grins and brings a hand to his mouth, a thumb
pressing into the soft flesh of a lower lip.
“Hajime,” he breathes. Iwaizumi’s eyes close at the same time his mouth opens,
the wet slide of his tongue a reprieve to too-hot fingers. Oikawa shudders,
holding back giddy laughter (it has been sadly proven Iwaizumi doesn’t like it
when he laughs during sex), and slams his hips into Iwaizumi. “You’re so good,
Hajime,” he says instead, leaning down to lick a flat stripe down his neck.
It strains beneath his tongue, all muscle and tension and salt, so Oikawa bites
and devours the sound Iwaizumi makes. It is sweeter than any other thing he’s
put in his mouth, which, considering its intangible state, is actually quite
wondrous.
“So good,” he repeats, because he knows how it makes Iwaizumi come faster than
a blowjob, and Oikawa is good with his mouth, be it at verbal praise or sucking
Iwaizumi off --
“Tooru,” Iwaizumi groans, between Oikawa’s fingers. He pulls them out, grabs at
the sheets instead. “Fuck, Tooru--”
“Mm,” Oikawa replies, mimicking a patience he doesn’t feel, and circles his
hips into Iwaizumi, striking a nearly-there spot inside him that never fails to
steal desperate pants out of his mouth. Suddenly, he wishes he’d eaten Iwaizumi
out, wishes he’d sharpened his sensitivity into a needle’s point, because the
last time he had Iwaizumi’s legs around his face he’d called Oikawa by his
first name an astounding number of seventeen times (a personal record).
It doesn’t matter now, he supposes, and grinds down. Iwaizumi’s neck shifts,
his collarbone casting shadows, and he moans, deep and long, trying to catch
the orgasm that Oikawa dangles out of his reach. God, Oikawa thinks, leaning
back to see, god, I love him, and then decides to say it aloud: “God, I love
you, Hajime, I love you,” and Iwaizumi comes untouched, stiffening in Oikawa’s
lap and just absolutely making a mess of himself.
Oikawa doesn’t quite manage to hold onto his previous plans of composure; he
comes, too, though it’s decidedly less visually arousing. His toes curl until
they go numb, but Oikawa’s eyes are on Iwaizumi for as long as he manages to go
without blinking, taking the sticky drips of cum sprayed across his chest, the
glazed wetness in his eyes, the red flush across his face.
“Iwa-chan,” he breathes, grinning and not quite able to stifle down post-coital
giggles, “Iwa-chan, you’re so obscene,” and Iwaizumi’s still catching his
breath, his mind, and doesn’t manage to summon the strength to hit him. “So
dirty, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa goes on, “I’m so glad I’m the only one who ever gets
to see this side of you.”
Iwaizumi goes ever redder, but only covers his face with his arm, still
shuddering.
“Fuck off, asshole,” he says, hoarsely, and Oikawa can’t help the barrage of
ecstatic snickers that break out of his chest, despite knowing Iwaizumi will
most definitely get revenge later.
“Be polite, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, half-laughing, and Iwaizumi pushes him off
with a glare, that stubborn expression soothed by the pink color of his skin.
“You should always say please! Or didn’t you get the lesson I tried so hard to
teach you?”
“I’ll kill you,” Iwaizumi shoots back, still blushing. He leans over to grab
tissues from his nightstand; Oikawa stares at his ass without shame.
“And I’ll let you,” he quips, a truth cruelly stripped of its weight, and leans
over him again.
 
End Notes
     ps: we need more bottom Iwaizumi in our lives
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