
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3927934.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Haikyuu!!
  Relationship:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime/Oikawa_Tooru
  Character:
      Iwaizumi_Hajime, Oikawa_Tooru
  Additional Tags:
      Teasing, Explicit_Consent, Safewords, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/
      Porn_Without_Plot, Dom/sub, Possessive_Sex, Established_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-22 Words: 2996
****** Protest ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Iwaizumi can feel the weight of Oikawa’s expectation bearing down on
     him, anticipation stretching taut and loaded, but if he reacts at all
     it’s only in the line that settles across his forehead, the
     irritation that drags his lips down into a frown." Oikawa gets
     inspiration from BL manga and Iwaizumi gets irritated.
Iwaizumi doesn’t look up when he hears Oikawa coming down the hallway. He’s
comfortable right where he is, thank you very much, and whatever pleasure might
be gained from appreciating the high line of Oikawa’s cheekbones or the soft
fall of his hair is more than counteracted by the necessity of dealing with his
smirk and the teasing flirtation that accompanies Iwaizumi so much as glancing
at him. So he keeps his eyes down, fixed on the magazine he’s reading, doesn’t
look up even when the footsteps come to a halt with Oikawa leaning in over the
back of the couch.
The silence goes heavy for long seconds. Iwaizumi can feel the weight of
Oikawa’s expectation bearing down on him, anticipation stretching taut and
loaded, but if he reacts at all it’s only in the line that settles across his
forehead, the irritation that drags his lips down into a frown. He turns the
page of the magazine, speaks without meeting the simmer of Oikawa’s gaze. “What
do you want?”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa purrs, like he hasn’t been waiting for Iwaizumi to notice
him for minutes. Iwaizumi glances up, glaring through the strands of his hair,
just as Oikawa tips his head to the side to make a long line of his throat.
It’s more dramatic even than usual, courtesy of the white shirt he has barely
clinging to his shoulder and only half-buttoned along the front; as Iwaizumi
blinks at him Oikawa tips farther over the back of the couch, going warm and
loose-limbed like he can’t remember how to stand upright.
“What are you wearing,” Iwaizumi asks without any intonation on the words at
all.
“What?” Oikawa’s response is breathless, structured into trembling uncertainty
that Iwaizumi is certain Oikawa has never experienced in all his life. “It’s
just a shirt, Iwa-chan.” His head is going farther to the side, the shadow in
his eyes completely undermining the attempt at innocence he is making with his
voice. “That’s not strange, is it?”
“Nope,” Iwaizumi bites off, looking back at the page. “Not strange at all.”
There’s a huff over him, the sound of Oikawa’s facade of innocence slipping for
a moment. The couch creaks, the frame shifting as Oikawa leans in farther until
the back of the furniture is supporting most of his weight. “Doesn’t it bother
you?” He’s too close, Iwaizumi can see the shadow of the other boy casting a
faint outline over the page in front of him; if he looked up be could probably
kiss him without stretching.
“No,” Iwaizumi growls. “Fuck off.”
“You’re not overwhelmed?” Oikawa is pouting, now, there’s the leading edge of
put-on hurt in his voice, and Iwaizumi isn’t even reading anymore as much as
glaring mounting irritation at the page. “Aren’t I too close? You’re just
clinging to the last edges of composure, you’re about to snap--”
Iwaizumi closes the magazine with a snap, swings it up to smack Oikawa in the
face with the edge. The other’s words cut off into a startled cry of pain, he
reels back from the couch, and Iwaizumi sits up to glare while Oikawa presses
his fingers to where the magazine hit his cheek.
“Don’t quote your stupid porn manga at me,” he growls. “If you want sex
just ask for it.”
“That’s not what you’re supposed to say, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa protests, emerging
from behind his hand to pout at Iwaizumi. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m
driving you crazy and you can’t take it anymore.”
“You are driving me crazy,” Iwaizumi says. “Why do you even like those damn
things so much?” Oikawa is still pouting at him, his lips red and flushed like
he’s been biting them -- for all Iwaizumi knows he has been -- his shirt only
half-on and clinging to his skin like it’s damp. “Is that my shirt?”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, eyes going wide and dark and injured.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Iwaizumi demands. He tosses the magazine aside, sits up on
the couch with all the itchy irritation of knowing he’s been baited into a
response. “What the fuck do you want me to say?” He reaches out, grabs at a
handful of shirt -- it is his, it’s hanging too-big on Oikawa’s slimmer
shoulders and making the other boy look as fragile and breakable as Iwaizumi
knows he isn’t -- drags hard to burn off the edge of his anger with aggression.
“That it’s your fault?” His voice is wrong, he knows, more angry than the
sultry purr he’s seen in passing in the absurd videos Oikawa consumes like
candy, but Oikawa’s eyelashes flutter anyway, an act no less attractive for
Iwaizumi knowing it’s a show. “You want me to tell you to take responsibility?”
He intends it as a mockery, means for the word to come out ironic and self-
aware, but the anger in his throat strips off any more subtle tones from his
words. It just sounds rough, instead, more of a growl than human speech, and
Oikawa goes pliant to his touch, like he’s trying to melt into Iwaizumi’s
fingers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he breathes, a pretense of naivete
Iwaizumi is sure Oikawa has never experienced in all his life, and Iwaizumi’s
coming forward, grabbing another handful of his shirt and swinging up over the
back of the couch.
“This is so fucking stupid,” he snaps, careless of the way the words casually
shatter the illusion Oikawa clearly is attempting to construct. His feet hit
the floor and Oikawa goes limp in his hold, the sudden weight at Iwaizumi’s
hands pulling him off-balance until he’s stumbling forward to the ground. It’s
really impressive, some bitterly rational part of his mind acknowledges, that
without his intent Oikawa manages to tangle them together as they go down,
Oikawa’s knee pressed high against Iwaizumi’s thigh and Iwaizumi’s hand braced
hard at Oikawa’s shoulder, fingertips skimming bare skin.
Oikawa’s staring at him, some attempt at wide-eyed shock still clinging to his
eyes, but his mouth is open on breathing far too heavy to pass for innocence,
he’s shaking very slightly under Iwaizumi’s touch. “Iwa-chan?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Iwaizumi grates. “Fine.” He lets one of his hands go,
reaches down to shove the loose fabric of the shirt up off Oikawa’s hip, and
when Oikawa shivers ostentatiously at the contact he’s on him, leaning in close
to growl his frustration into Oikawa’s mouth instead of the air. Oikawa’s warm,
submissive under his touch and whimpering response at his lips; when he opens
his mouth Iwaizumi bites at his lower lip, sucks hard enough that Oikawa whines
in half-hearted protest.
“What are you doing?” Oikawa manages when Iwaizumi pulls back, looks away from
the draw of the other’s half-lidded eyes so he can push open the buttons on his
shirt. “I--I don’t know what you want from me.” The words are syrupy, drenched
in put-on denial; Iwaizumi rolls his eyes without looking up.
“Jesus fuck, you are so ridiculous.” The shirt comes open, falls loose against
Oikawa’s shoulders, and some of the irritation in Iwaizumi’s blood trips over
the edge into appreciation at the expanse of bare skin in front of him. He
growls, ducks his head to bite against Oikawa’s collarbone, and the other boy
arches up in instant response, head going back on a groan of reaction.
“Ah.” Iwaizumi slides down farther, licks a path of heat against Oikawa’s skin;
he has to pushagainst the other’s hip to hold him down to the floor, but Oikawa
doesn’t protest, just grabs against the strands of his hair like he’s trying to
hold him steady. Iwaizumi rocks his weight back over his heels, freeing his
other head to fumble down against the front of Oikawa’s jeans, and the other
boy groans, the sound stuttering in his throat.
“No,” he gasps, “No, don’t.”
Iwaizumi can feel the irritation tighten in his chest, pulls back in a rush to
glare at Oikawa. “What? You come out here to seduce me and now you--”
Oikawa tips his head down. When he blinks it’s like a mask falling off his
features, his eyes coming back into focus and his mouth tensing into control
instead of soft gasping. “Don’t stop, Iwa-chan, that’s not how this works.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Iwaizumi growls.
Oikawa sighs, lets his hold on Iwaizumi’s hair go so he can push up on an
elbow. “Don’t you know anything? You’re supposed to tell me you can’t hold back
anymore and then you push me down while I protest until you make me enjoy
myself.”
Iwaizumi blinks once, twice. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why
do you read these anyway? If you’re telling me no how am I supposed to know if
you really do want me to stop?”
Oikawa’s expression collapses into amusement, laughter sparkling over his
features and into his eyes. “I won’t want you to stop.”
“No way,” Iwaizumi says. “No way, if you’re gonna be playing like you don’t
want it you have to be able to tell me if you really don’t.”
“Like a safeword?” Oikawa asks. “Fine, sure, I’ll say volleyball if I want you
to actually stop.”
“That’s stupid,” Iwaizumi growls. “This is stupid. You’re stupid.”
“Iwa-chan--”
“Shut up,” Iwaizumi snaps, leans in to kiss at Oikawa’s mouth again. Oikawa
whines, shock and heat at his lips, and he pushes his hand back down to seek
out the front of Oikawa’s jeans again.
“Ah!” Oikawa arches up into his touch; he’s still hard, pressed tight against
the front of his jeans, and there’s a rush of unwilling heat through Iwaizumi’s
body, his own cock twitching from half to full interest at the shape of Oikawa
against his palm.
“You do want it,” he says, the words vibrating over his tongue and against
Oikawa’s lips, and Oikawa whines, his eyes shut like he’s avoiding Iwaizumi’s
gaze.
“No,” he gasps, sounding breathless and showy and insincere. “No, I don’t.”
Iwaizumi doesn’t have to force his laugh. “You don’t sound very convincing.” He
pushes Oikawa’s button open, urges the zipper down; the denim comes open,
leaves just the thin fabric of Oikawa’s boxers between his fingers and the heat
of the other’s cock. Oikawa’s rocking up against his touch; when Iwaizumi looks
at the other boy Oikawa’s eyes are shut, his mouth open on the rush of his
breathing and a crease of heat across his forehead.
“Fuck,” Iwaizumi spits, hooks his thumb under the edge of Oikawa’s boxers to
push them down. “Don’t want it, huh?” He drags his fingers against the heat of
Oikawa’s cock, grins sharp at the way the other’s mouth goes open and his back
curves at the contact. “Yeah, sure, you’re really hating this.”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa manages, fingers catching and twisting against the back of
Iwaizumi’s neck. “Ah, ah, fe-feels good.”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “You’re even more irritating like this.” He leans
back, lets Oikawa go so he can drag the other’s jeans down off his hips. Oikawa
arches up off the floor as Iwaizumi gets his clothes free; his legs are pale
without the cover of his jeans, the hard line of his cock pulling Iwaizumi’s
attention before he twists sideways, tucking his knees up towards his chest in
an unusual display of self-consciousness.
“Don’t look at me,” Oikawa whimpers, fitting a hand down to press between his
thighs. His cheeks are flushed, his shoulders hunched like he’s the virgin
Iwaizumi knows he’s not; if it weren’t for the shadowed sideways glance he
gives Iwaizumi he wouldn’t be out of place on the pages of the manga he likes
so much.
“Christ,” Iwaizumi groans, his gaze dragging down the half-exposed line of
Oikawa’s spine. It makes an elegant curve from the pushed-up edge of white
shirt down to the tilt of his hips, the curve of his ass, and it’s then that
Iwaizumi sees the catch of light off slick skin.
“Fuck,” he says, grabs at Oikawa’s knee to push his legs apart by an inch. “Did
you already open yourself up?”
Oikawa whimpers, turns his face down like he’s trying to hide against the
floor. It’s maybe a coincidence that the motion tips his hips over, makes an
offering of himself for Iwaizumi’s gaze, but Iwaizumi doesn’t care if it’s a
show or not; he’s thinking about Oikawa sliding fingers into himself, putting
elegant hands to work stretching himself open, and he’s too hard inside his
jeans to think straight.
“Fuck me,” and he’s grabbing at Oikawa’s hip, shoving the other boy over onto
his knees while he pulls his own jeans open one-handed. “You’re so fucking
filthy.” Oikawa tips his hips up, turns his head to look back over his shoulder
at Iwaizumi; his eyelashes are fluttering into shadow, his gaze far more
tempting than his adopted persona has any right to be. Iwaizumi’s jeans come
open, he pushes the fabric aside without bothering to get entirely free of the
clothing; it’s enough to get his fingers around the base of his cock, to hold
himself steady while he lines himself up. “I can’t believe you, you’ve just
been ready for me this whole time.”
“No,” Oikawa breathes, the rejection too sultry to pass even as acting even
without the way he arches his back and flattens his hand against the floor to
brace himself. “No, don’t.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Iwaizumi snaps, and he thrusts himself forward in one
rushing motion. Oikawa really is ready, hot and so slick Iwaizumi is sinking
into him faster than he expected, and the friction is nice but far better is
the way Oikawa jerks, the sudden startled “Iwa-chan” in his throat, the fact
that Iwaizumi can’t hear anything but his Oikawa in the sound.
“Yeah,” he growls in meaningless approval, presses in farther until the whole
length of him is buried inside the other boy. “You done pretending now?” He
leans forward, reaches out to fit his hand to the back of Oikawa’s neck; Oikawa
tips his head forward obediently, lets Iwaizumi’s fingers curl in against the
soft line of his hair, and something purrs satisfaction in Iwaizumi’s blood
even before he draws himself back to slide forward again in a slick-smooth
motion.
“I don’t like you acting like someone else,” he informs Oikawa, pressing in as
deep as he can manage so the heat and the friction spark satisfaction up under
his skin. “I just want you to be yourself, the way you are for me.”
“Yours?” Oikawa suggests, turning his head under Iwaizumi’s hold so he’s
looking up through his hair. Iwaizumi can see how flushed his mouth is, can
make out the part of his lips on his inhales.
“Fuck,” he says, and “Yeah,” and he leans in closer, pushes harder at Oikawa’s
neck to hold him down so he can reach around the other’s hip to grab a hold on
the other’s length. “Yeah, mine.” Oikawa’s burning to the touch, slick all
across the head of his cock; Iwaizumi tightens his hold, strokes up in a rush.
He can feel Oikawa tense around him, the ripple of reaction gripping tight
against him, has to groan an exhale before he can keep speaking. “Tell me who
you belong to.”
There’s a laugh, a shiver of amusement that curls the edges of Oikawa’s mouth
in spite of his eyes falling shut, his breathing coming heavy under the
movement of Iwaizumi’s fingers. “Possessive much, Iwa-chan?”
Iwaizumi twists his hand, fast enough that Oikawa gasps and jerks at the
sensation, thrusts in deeper. “Tell me.”
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa groans. Iwaizumi can see his fingers tensing against the
floor, can see sensation knotting in the line of his shoulders. “Yours, Iwa-
chan, I’m yours.”
“Fuck,” Iwaizumi spits, and he’s coming, the slide of his hips jerking into
irregularity under the weight of heat in his veins. Oikawa’s tightening around
him, whimpering something incoherent against the floor, and Iwaizumi keeps
moving his hand, the action more reflexive than deliberate. There’s a rush of
sensation as Oikawa’s body draws tense, the friction almost too much for the
shudders of pleasure coursing through Iwaizumi, and then Oikawa chokes off a
moan, and Iwaizumi blinks himself back into clarity as the other boy sags
against the floor, tremors of satisfaction rippling along his spine and
spilling hot over Iwaizumi’s fingers.
They’re both shaking when Iwaizumi pulls back. His hand is sticky, the fingers
at Oikawa’s neck bracing so hard he can see the prints of them when he draws
his hold away. Oikawa turns over as soon as he’s free, sprawls boneless and
languid over the floor with his usual casual grace, and when he lifts a hand to
gesture Iwaizumi in the other boy is too tired and overheated to protest. He
goes, falling hard enough that the impact blows all the air out of Oikawa in a
rush; then he’s lying half atop the other, his forehead pressed in against
Oikawa’s shoulder and his arm draped across the other’s waist. Oikawa catches
his breath, lifts a hand to press his fingertips into Iwaizumi’s hair, and
Iwaizumi lets a breath go along with his tension to relax into the friction.
“Your fingers are sticky,” Oikawa observes presently.
“Your fault,” Iwaizumi says without any heat.
There’s a pause. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be possessive, Iwa-chan.”
“Oh, shut up,” Iwaizumi growls.
There’s a laugh, bright and breathless with sincerity, fingers curling in to
fit against the back of Iwaizumi’s head. “I don’t mind,” Oikawa purrs, the hum
of amusement that says it’s going to be a long time before Iwaizumi hears the
end of this. “I really am yours, you know.”
Iwaizumi considers a retort, a protest or an insult or a threat to get Oikawa
to shut up. But when he reaches all he can find is one response, and when he
turns his head in towards Oikawa’s shoulder it’s to growl amused sincerity
against the other’s skin.
“You had better be.”
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