Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3959788.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, No_Archive_Warnings_Apply
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime/Oikawa_Tooru
  Character:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime, Oikawa_Tooru, mentions_of_others
  Additional Tags:
      Summer, Hot_Weather, Childhood_Friends, Uncertain_Fuckbuddies, Sexual
      Tension, Porn_with_Feelings, Blowjobs, Mentions_of_Jealousy, Angst_and
      Humor, Explicit_Language, Complicated_Relationships
  Collections:
      The_Best
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-18 Words: 2951
****** poisoned darts of pleasure ******
by aischrolatry
Summary
     Iwaizumi does not mind the summer; just what comes with it.
Notes
     I didn’t know I shipped Iwaoi this hard, holy shit.
     So here this is, I guess. I just had to get it out of my system. I
     kind of got the itch to write a prequel (of sorts) to this fic, but
     Iwaoi is hard as fuck to write, so who knows if it will ever see the
     light of day.
Outside, it is hot, bright, and the cicadas are crying out in monotone.
Iwaizumi’s feet stick to the wooden floor, a half-pull that brings him back to
stickier times, to skinned knees and canals and dropping bugs down Oikawa’s
shirts. You’re supposed to do that to girls, Oikawa always said, crying, and
Iwaizumi always replied, shrugging: but I want to do it to you.
As Iwaizumi closes his math notebook, finally complete, he wonders if things
have changed at all. The soft roll of his office chair provides no answer as he
exits his room.
===============================================================================
Iwaizumi does not mind the summer—he has never been bothered by the heat,
unlike some boys who wheeze and pant and whine over how sweaty they are. Like
always, Iwaizumi goes on, because it is the one thing he knows he is able to
do.
“Just—will you—“ Oikawa cries out, lagging behind. The fabric of Iwaizumi’s
shirt bunches up by his stomach when Oikawa pulls on it, tightens both the
elastic and something inside Iwaizumi. “Stop already, Iwa-chan!?”
Needy, Iwaizumi thinks, as he halts. The neighborhood is quiet and still, and a
drop of sweat runs down the back of his neck; he brings up a calloused palm,
swats at it like a mosquito.
“It’s not my fault you’re slow,” he replies, dry like the summer breeze – but
does not start running right away. Oikawa leans against the closest wall, bare
arm against a white tile, then hisses and backs off, skin scalded and pink.
Iwaizumi sighs under his breath, something long and audible and uncomfortably
hot as well; he suddenly wishes he hadn’t given Oikawa the rest of his water.
His voice burns with irritation: “Why do you keep coming if all you do is
complain, Trashykawa?”
“Not my fault you’re a dick,” Oikawa shoots back lamely, and evades Iwaizumi’s
punch with the grace of someone who has been personally attacked too many
times. His stance is unaware, unbalanced – Iwaizumi is quick to snatch the
curve of his heel, then the crook of his arm, and then Oikawa is ass-deep
inside a canal.
“There,” he says, wiping his hands as if he’s just taken out the trash, “now
sit still and be a well-behaved piece of sewage waste until I return.”
Oikawa screams profanities at him as he clambers out of the canal, clothes
dripping with water and face flushed with anger. Iwaizumi duly proceeds with
his training, only turning back to make sure Oikawa’s revengeful hands stay
out-of-reach.
===============================================================================
“What do you mean, you don’t have iced tea?” Oikawa asks, sounding offended,
from inside the fridge. Iwaizumi glances at him from the couch, then turns back
to the TV. Doraemon waves back at him and he scoffs, half-amused and half-
embarrassed.
“Why the hell would I have iced tea? Dad is the only one who drinks that crap,
and he’s out of town. Go get your own if you want it so much.”
“You’re a shitty host, Iwa-chan. The shittiest of hosts, even, though there
hasn’t been a competition yet,” Oikawa replies, closing the fridge door and
turning to the sink. “What, oh, what would Aunty say if she knew this is how
you treat your precious, darling childhood friend?”
“Don’t call me that,” Iwaizumi returns, making the effort to turn around just
so he can glare. “Just drink regular water. No wonder you can’t last half an
hour in the sun.”
Oikawa gasps as he fills a glass, staring at Iwaizumi over his shoulder and
covering his mouth with his free hand.
“Iwa-chan! Are you—“
“No,” Iwaizumi cuts in, merciless.
“—concerned about me!? What a fortuitous day this is,” Oikawa goes on,
distracted, and the water is dribbling over the edge of the glass, over
Oikawa’s fingers, into the sink, “when my precious tsundere teammate admits (so
openly!) to worry over my physical state—“
“Oh my god,” Iwaizumi mutters to himself, as he attempts to drown himself into
the closest pillow. Oikawa’s weight settles in beside him not seconds later,
along with the muted sound of water hitting fabric. When he looks, Oikawa
splashes his face with water, his left hand glittering in the light of
Iwaizumi’s living room. “Why do I put up with you, Assikawa?”
“Pssh,” Oikawa replies, and slaps Iwaizumi with the wet palm of his hand. It
smells like Iwaizumi’s body wash, and feels viscously cool. “Have you even
looked at me, Iwa-cha—“
It was a reflex, Iwaizumi will tell himself later. It was an unconscious
reflex, and Iwaizumi’s hand locks around Oikawa’s wrist – setter’s wrists,
bony, delicate things that Iwaizumi knows for sure he could twist – just as he
tips Oikawa into the couch and mashes his mouth against his. Oikawa grins
against his lips, the bastard grins, and Iwaizumi snarls in reply, kicking his
legs apart just so he can settle between them.
Oikawa is hot enough that Iwaizumi is actually surprised their skins don’t
sizzle on contact. Iwaizumi isn’t hard, but he needs to be closer anyway, and
when Oikawa’s spine curves his hips go around Iwaizumi’s stomach. Oikawa has
nice thighs, firm and pale, and his shorts climb when Iwaizumi presses down.
This is what he feels like when he scores a match set, this is what victory is,
this is –
“Predictable,” Oikawa whispers, when Iwaizumi pulls back, though the sound
lacks any softness. “You’re so predictable, Iwa-chan.”
“Fuck,” Iwaizumi hisses, burying his warm face into his hands. “I hate you so
much,” he adds, when the heat refuses to leave.
“I know,” the other boy says, from his place on the couch.
===============================================================================
“He doesn’t do well in the summer, right?” Kunimi whispers to the side, his
bored gaze settling on Oikawa.
Iwaizumi, serving against the wall behind them, cannot believe the first-years
actually think they are being subtle, but he just turns back to the bricks and
goes on practicing. His palm is hot and stinging already, but it is not enough.
It is not enough.
“Who, Oikawa-senpai?” Kindaichi replies. “I didn’t know that.”
Iwaizumi lets his fingers drift across the volleyball’s ridges, then spins it
in his hands.
“You just suck at paying attention,” Kunimi goes on, blandly. “Just look at how
pink his face gets when we start the squats’ drills.”
Iwaizumi breathes in, smothers a smirk and throws –
“What? That’s nothing! What about Iwaizumi-senpai? Seems like the kind who
explodes over everything,” Kindaichi points out, sounding disappointed.
Iwaizumi’s eyes pull back from the trajectory, lock onto the two first-years.
“My grandpa’s just like that, too. My parents usually try to distract him with
those lame tours across the countryside—“
“Iwaizumi-senpai, watch out!” Watari calls out, from the other side of the
gymnasium. Iwaizumi looks up.
===============================================================================
It’s not the first time he gets smacked in the face with a volleyball, nor will
it be the last – but it is the only time Oikawa does not make fun of it. That
in itself makes it more embarrassing, somehow, like Iwaizumi’s been absolutely
and effortlessly read, like Oikawa is giving him this one for free.
He knows it’s about him, Iwaizumi thinks, after practice, a rolled-up towel
hanging around his neck. The fabric is damp and feels pleasant in the humid
heat of the locker rooms, but Oikawa’s voice carries from the showers and it
incinerates Iwaizumi from the inside. He fucking knows, Iwaizumi thinks, and
when he gets up to leave, the rest of his team scrambles to get out of the way.
It is never enough.
===============================================================================
“Did you miss me this much, Iwa-chan? It’s only been, what, two—” Oikawa
breathes, and Iwaizumi slaps a hand on his mouth, pretends not to be seared by
the sight.
Oikawa really does get pink in the summer, but he excels even at that; Iwaizumi
wants to run his teeth across the color, make it bleed further. Oikawa is
faster, running his tongue across Iwaizumi’s palm when he starts getting
impatient, but it’s been years since he’s first started that, and Iwaizumi is
only betrayed by a shiver, no more. Even that is controlled—as if he has any
control left in him.
“You kiss girls with that mouth,” Iwaizumi states, but doesn’t relent, doesn’t
let Oikawa answer. The other boy tries anyway, muffled words leaking from the
spaces between Iwaizumi’s knuckles. He leans in, until he can feel Oikawa’s
chest rising against his, until he can settle the press of his dick where he
wants it to, and asks: “Do they know where it’s been?”
Oikawa is quick to swallow back his tongue after that, his stomach quivering
and his eyes fluttering; Iwaizumi is almost undone at the sight. He rolls his
hips into Oikawa’s, instead, and the setter bares his throat, trying to turn
his face towards covers of his bed. Iwaizumi doesn’t let him, not completely.
He likes watching Oikawa’s face when it’s like this.
“Do you do these kinds of things to them, too?” he asks, after he sucks a mark
into Oikawa’s neck. The other boy smells like his own shampoo, for once,
nothing simple or subtle like Iwaizumi’s. That annoys Iwaizumi in a way he
can’t explain. “Do you let them give you hickeys like this, Trashykawa?”
Oikawa moans something. Iwaizumi’s palm is sticky and damp and he keeps it
there all the same.
“Do you moan like that for them, too?” His free hand darts to the end of
Oikawa’s shirt, plays with it. Beneath his shorts, Oikawa’s dick is hard, just
like Iwaizumi’s is, and he can’t help but to rut against it. Oikawa moans
again, and Iwaizumi sees stars, presses down harder. He’s close already, too
close for comfort – he pulls back and Oikawa’s legs twitch around his ribs.
Iwaizumi retrieves his hand, uses it to grab Oikawa’s chin, and looks at him,
really looks.
“What is it, Oikawa?”
There is a lull in speed; Oikawa’s eyes are soft, Iwaizumi feels sliced apart,
and their breaths cut into the bedroom’s silence like knives. They have just
taken post-practice showers but Iwaizumi’s skin is damp again. Oikawa licks his
lips, then the underside of his teeth. Iwaizumi’s grip doesn’t wane.
“Mom is right downstairs,” he eventually says, voice thick and wet and
distinctly unbothered. “And I haven’t had a girlfriend in four months.”
Not the point, Iwaizumi thinks, even as one part of him marvels at the fact.
The rest of him, however, brings him back to skinned knees, to slithery things
between cotton and skin, to a time where Oikawa was just his. There is so much
he wants to say. He doesn’t know how to even begin.
“It’s hot,” Iwaizumi says, in the end, and pulls back, drops his hand. “I’ll
come back when you get an AC unit.”
Oikawa’s face shifts, his eyes wider, his gaze sharpened into a bayonet;
Iwaizumi is instantly skewered.
“Don’t,” Oikawa cuts in, hands grabbing at Iwaizumi’s collar so hard he hears
the fabric snap, “don’t you dare, Iwa-chan,” and he actually manages to push
Iwaizumi down, those thighs closing around his torso, “you don’t get to do
this,“ pale hands at the knot of his shorts, deft from repetition, “this, this
thing where you start me up and run away—“
“I am notrunning away,” Iwaizumi retorts hotly, but his mouth floods as soon as
Oikawa’s palms connect with his boxers. Oikawa never wastes a chance at
success, and when Iwaizumi’s hips twitch the other boy slides down his torso to
kiss at his hipbones.
“You’re a bad liar, Iwa-chan,” he says, voice as flat as his gaze. Iwaizumi’s
dick is throbbing, and Oikawa’s mouth is so close to it Iwaizumi swears he can
feel his breath over the fabric. He gives the skin of Iwaizumi’s stomach a
lick, a quick flat stroke, and grins at the ensuing ripples of muscle. “D’you
kiss me with that mouth?”
Fuck, Iwaizumi thinks, biting down on his lip. Oikawa has reached the point of
menace and victory, clever eyes catching a hint of teeth, and that’s it, that’s
when Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi’s dick out of his boxers and presses a wet kiss—“O-
Oikawa,” Iwaizumi hisses, one hand darting out to close around his hair, one
elbow anchoring in the mattress beneath them. “Haa, shit—“
“Mm?” Oikawa hums questioningly. He looks good like that, pink-faced and with
his mouth around Iwaizumi’s dick. It’s not the first time they do it, but it’s
the first time he has such a good view – in the privacy of his mind, he wonders
if he could ask for a picture of this. Knowing Oikawa, he would probably even
like the idea—knowing Oikawa, Iwaizumi would never have to jack off to cheap
porn again.
The thought – inflamed by current circumstances – brings him too close to the
edge.
“I’m go—get off, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi lets out through grit teeth, pushing at
Oikawa’s shoulder first, pulling at his hair later. Oikawa’s mouth is wet and
hot, everything is hot, and Iwaizumi’s going to explode in seconds if Oikawa
doesn’t stop sucking his cock. Oikawa closes his eyes, hums a little more, and
Iwaizumi goes taut and—
Gets a hand around the base of his dick, tight and firm, and a naughty grin
that lights another fire inside him.
“Are you actually going to come in my mouth, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, thumb
digging into the Iwaizumi’s trembling hipbones. His legs are twitching like
he’s ran a marathon, and his breath feels winded, too, but not as much as
Iwaizumi himself. He wants to fuck Oikawa’s mouth, wants to hold onto his hair
and keep his pretty little lips around his cock as he thrusts. “I’ve never seen
you like this,” Oikawa adds, off-hand (but his ears are flushed and the pitch
of his voice is low).
“I thought your mother was downstairs,” Iwaizumi retorts, and gives Oikawa’s
hair a tug, hard enough to wince. “Get busy or—”
“Then stop running,” Oikawa replies, the intent to injure back in his eyes, and
licks at Iwaizumi’s dick without looking away, pressing another wet kiss to the
tip. Shameless, just – fucking shameless. Iwaizumi feels the sweat pooling
behind his bent knees, sliding down his calves. “It’s not complicated unless
you make it.”
Something inside him snaps.
Iwaizumi brings Oikawa up by his armpits then, throwing him onto his torso.
Oikawa shouts something in surprise, but Iwaizumi smothers it with a kiss, and
rakes his fingers down Oikawa’s back as he searches for the elastic of his
shorts. Oikawa moans into the kiss, melting in his lap as he brings his arms
around Iwaizumi’s neck.
You’re the one who’s complicated, Iwaizumi accuses, tipping his childhood
friend into the mattress and rutting into him like he’s going to die otherwise.
Oikawa always unfolds when Iwaizumi loses it like this, and Iwaizumi knows, and
regrets – though never in the moment. You’re the one who—
“Iwa-chan, I love you,” Oikawa had said, skinned knees and runny nose, a clammy
hand inside his.
“Iwa-chan, come on,” Oikawa says, flushed pink and tousled, beneath Iwaizumi’s
hands. “T-There’s lube on the—“
Iwaizumi kisses him again, breaks it off. Oikawa is a good kisser, but
sometimes he likes to be sloppy, slower, likes making Iwaizumi feel impatient
and eager. And, after all, it is summer – it doesn’t surprise Iwaizumi the
other boy takes it down a notch.
“I know,” Iwaizumi snaps, knuckles white, their creases moist with sweat. “I
know,” he adds, slower, biting down on Oikawa’s shoulder. He tastes
salty—Iwaizumi resists the urge to make a joke—but also fresh, like a glass of
cool water in the summer. It is the third hickey Iwaizumi leaves – later,
Oikawa will take advantage of them, will flaunt them like an MVP trophy, will
wear them like he wears his skin (proudly).
For now, they are Iwaizumi’s alone, they inflame him from within and spur him
into acting. Thus it’s not long before Oikawa’s breathing hard, a myriad of
Iwa-chans that definitely don’t sound childish echoing inside Iwaizumi’s skull.
Iwaizumi grips him tight, closer, until Oikawa’s ankles are locked behind his
ass, digging into the muscle when he wants it harder, Iwa-chan, please, please—
“Shitty Oikawa,” Iwaizumi had said, pockets bulging with earthworms and palms
dirty with soil, “I hate you.”
“Shitty Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, and his voice breaks into small, staccato
breaths, “I – you—“
===============================================================================
Outside, it is warm, dim, and the crickets gather in the gardens. Iwaizumi’s
feet stick to the wooden floor as he gets up from the bed, feeling light-
headed, hollow, and vaguely nauseated. Oikawa’s mother is calling from
downstairs – “is Iwa-chan staying for dinner, Tooru?” – while Oikawa puts his
shirt back on and screams back a ‘no’.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Iwaizumi says, hand on the knob. “If you find my
socks—“
“I’ll take ‘em back, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa replies, making a peace sign. Iwaizumi
stills, staring at the white of Oikawa’s bedroom door, as light a color as the
one painting his knuckles.
Doesn’t this feel weird? Iwaizumi wants to ask. His palms are sweaty, and slide
against the metal, but Iwaizumi doesn’t let go. Doesn’t this feel forced to
you, Trashykawa? What are we doing? What am I doing?
There is a pause; he can hear Oikawa breathing.
“You’d better,” Iwaizumi replies, instead. “Don’t text me pictures of fat cats
anymore, or I’ll block you.”
“Try and stop me,” Oikawa shoots back, like the two of them are just childhood
friends again, instead of whatever the fuck they are. Iwaizumi closes the door
behind him, greets Aunty goodbye, and when he gets home there are a total of
six emails from Oikawa on his phone. They are, unsurprisingly, all pictures of
fat cats.
Iwaizumi laughs, decides to block Oikawa’s number until morning, and keeps them
all, anyway.
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