Chapter Text
A week ago, Oikawa was in a nondescript club with his teammates, bouncing with the beat, a sweet drink sloshing in his margarita glass. The lights were nauseatingly colorful and sporadic, alternating from washing the humid room in pitch darkness to deep reds and blues.
The high of their win still flowed through his veins and tugged at the corners of his lips. Franco’s brawny arm had snaked around his waist and he let his head tip back to the hitter’s shoulder. His stomach fluttered at the contact, having been deprived for so long, but he knew no one who knew him would insult him with a proposition.
The hitter was new, but he’d learned the group’s dynamics well. He also had a wonderful beard that scratched deliciously against Oikawa’s skin.
Argentina was touchy-feely, as Oikawa learned. It suited him.
Iwaizumi had his own gripes about it, though they eventually found that he enjoyed watching. Between the two of them, everyone won in the end—sometimes it was scary, being met halfway in every regard. Every like, every dislike.
“You’re awfully pliant tonight,” Franco said in his ear, shuffling them further into the crowd of people.
Oikawa clacked his teeth in a false bite, then laughed, giddy and lazy as if he’d drank much more than he already had.
“You know it,” said Oikawa.
“It’s because of how badly we destroyed Formosa tonight.” Mattias slid over, donning the ridiculously oversized sunglasses that the team loved to tease him for. Oikawa’s grin grew.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Franco,” Oikawa said, pulling the taller man down to his level. “I made Number Seven cry.”
Mattias laughed raucously and clapped. “That’s our Toto! Mean as ever,” he shouted and danced off into the mass of bodies.
Once he was out of sight, Franco spun Oikawa around; front to front. Oikawa’s hand came up to rest on the man’s hip, Franco’s on Oikawa’s lower back. It tightened there.
Franco cleared his throat and asked, “You like it when they cry?”
Oikawa bit back a shocked laugh at the darkness pooling in those brown eyes. Instead of teasing him, he leaned in to say in a low voice; I love it, and pushed off for the bar. He needed to clear his head.
The conversation sat with Oikawa long after the club, like a stubborn itch at the back of his consciousness. From the look on Franco's face and how he’d gripped Oikawa, it had clearly done something to the man.
Oikawa hadn’t really considered, until then, that someone could get turned on from crying.
At first, the revelation burned sourly in his mouth. Oikawa didn’t feel unsafe, but it had been the first time in a long time since he’d let someone other than Iwaizumi grab him like that.
Therein lay the problem, though.
Imagining Iwaizumi in the same situation, Oikawa wasn’t sure if his partner would react the same way. A more likely situation would be Iwaizumi pawing at the back of his head and accusing him of being his usual crappy self. Oikawa would have laughed it off and bent down to kiss Iwaizumi, mumbling a shallow apology.
A likely situation. Yes, likely, indeed.
But the other outcome was much more favorable.
Oikawa imagined Iwaizumi looking at him with that same want, even darker than Franco’s had been.
Fuck.
It’d been too long since he’d last seen that expression anywhere other than over their laggy FaceTime reception.
Oikawa huffed and rolled over on his couch. It was probably too hot to do this, he reasoned. The fan in the window clicked repetitively, the blue and yellow streamers tied to the vent flapping noiselessly. It provided little relief.
He only had another half hour before Iwaizumi was scheduled to call him, so he couldn’t leave the apartment to distract himself.
As his thoughts drifted to Iwaizumi once more, the calloused tips of his fingers dusted along his waistband. His stomach jumped at the contact, signaling his desperation.
He was too worked up to let it pass. Oikawa threw himself back into the scenario, eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t touch himself yet—he wanted the buildup to be just as good as it was when Iwaizumi was there.
You like it when they cry? the Iwaizumi in his head asked. It came with that quiet, raspy tone Iwaizumi spoke in after a long day.
“Mh,” Oikawa moaned. “Yeah. I love it.”
Iwaizumi would’ve ground into him, broad and strong hands like a vice around Oikawa’s middle. Iwaizumi was always rough, and just imagining that possessiveness made Oikawa’s stomach flip.
Should I be worried?
“Never, baby,” Oikawa said. He kept his voice down, but controlling his noises altogether was impossible.
Sounds like someone’s getting mean again.
Oikawa dipped further into his shorts and brushed against his hardness with light fingers. He liked teasing contact through thin cloth, the thought of Iwaizumi getting him hard, but pulling away whenever Oikawa bucked upwards. “That never stopped,” Oikawa replied. You like it when I’m mean, he thought.
‘Course I do.
His thoughts trailed off and Oikawa’s nose scrunched in aggravation. He’d been so into the idea, but, for whatever reason, it wasn’t scratching the itch. His fingers slid back up to tease at his lower stomach again.
Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s dynamic had always been push-and-pull. They maintained a level of balance in sex, both of them naturally settling in positions with a happy ease. At the end of the day, all that mattered was they could get their hands on each other after being away for so long.
Oikawa took a deep breath and considered a distant thought. He rolled it on his tongue, faintly tasting its give. Maybe…
I like it when you’re mean to me, too.
Realistically, Iwaizumi would never say that, because Oikawa would take that knowledge and run to the ends of the earth with it. He knew it was true, though. The more he thought about it—yes.
Iwaizumi almost always indulged his bullying efforts, supportive of his so-called mean girl habits. He’d always hated the same people as Oikawa did, though that was a given. They’d written mean anonymous comments before, giggling over an ancient Instagram post together in their senior year. Iwaizumi kept him under control just enough for Oikawa’s reputation not to be tainted, but he’d rarely complained when Oikawa got snappy. Rough.
Iwaizumi liked it rough. Both giving and getting.
An image of Iwaizumi on his knees, face flushed and stained with tear tracks flashed in his mind, and effectively opened the floodgates for thousands more like it.
Iwaizumi crying for him, crying to be touched, crying for Oikawa to give it a break, crying from overstimulation, crying from a slap to his face, a slap to his inner thigh, to his cock—
Think you could make me cry?
Oikawa sat up with a gasp and then fell back down on the couch. He smiled uncontrollably, arousal ripping through his lower stomach like a hot knife. Yes. Holy fuck, yes. That was what had been missing.
He scrambled to shuck his clothes off, tangling his ankles in the mess of his lounge shorts until he finally flung them across the hardwood floor.
With a salacious, wet lick, he coated the palm of his hand with saliva and wrapped it around his dick, whimpering at the heated contact.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Oikawa hissed, jerking himself off with an unhealthy speed. His core muscles clenched and relaxed, then tightened unbearably. He craned his neck up as the tension grew stronger, precum wetting his slide into a lewd schlick, schlick, schlick. His free hand gripped at the couch cushion with bone-shattering strength.
Again, the Iwaizumi in his head begged. He looked like a mess, covered in spit and tears.
Oikawa wound back and slapped him across the face again, whipping Iwaizumi’s head to the side.
Fuck, Iwaizumi sobbed. He looked up at Oikawa with beautiful, watery eyes. The sight seized Oikawa’s throat, and he moaned so loud it echoed off the walls.
Shit. Shit. Oh, god, Oikawa needed to hear Iwaizumi crying, needed it like he needed to see Iwaizumi’s eyes roll back in pain-pleasure. He needed to know how Iwaizumi would take it, take it, take it. Take it for me.
“More, baby,” Oikawa said through clenched teeth. Get all messy for me, Papi. Show me how pretty you cry for me. Show me how much it hurts.
Oh, fuck. That thought threw him miles closer to his orgasm, heat prickling all over his skin. He sucked in as much of the muggy air as he could get and his eyebrows pinched in the middle. He should’ve put down a towel.
Oikawa would grab Iwaizumi’s face then, gentle hands cupping Iwaizumi’s cheeks. Iwaizumi’s jaw would drop for Oikawa to slide in. The underside of his dick would feel incredible against Iwaizumi’s warm, slippery tongue. In his fantasy, Oikawa would have already known he had the right to shove in and fuck down Iwaizumi’s tight throat to chase his pleasure with enough desperation to nearly knock Iwaizumi off balance.
In his fantasy, Iwaizumi looked up at him with the most pitiful, mind-spinning, sexy expression with all the neediness and ache that Oikawa wanted to fuck into him. It was addicting. Suddenly, he imagined stepping down on the clothed bulge at the font of Iwaizumi’s pants and swore he almost felt the resounding whine travel through his cock to the tips of his ears.
It took little else to send Oikawa overboard, and he stroked himself through his peak, cum splattering up to his neck. His thighs squeezed against each other and his toes curled against the fabric of the sofa, arm straining, but slowing until it flopped to the side, knuckles trailing the floor.
He forced his eyes to open, but the rest of his body was completely useless.
Fuck.
Wow.
He never—He—He was a fucking sadist, wasn’t he?
Post-glow exhaustion crept up on him then, closing his eyes once more, and slowed his heartbeat to something less life-threatening.
His phone rang, the familiar jingle he’d set for Iwaizumi.
Oikawa blindly reached across the table until he found it and slid his thumb to accept the call.
“Sleepy already?” Iwaizumi asked.
Oikawa peeked open one eye and grinned. “Yeah,” he drawled.
From the looks of it, Iwaizumi had just gotten out of class. The angle was unflattering, but Oikawa’s vision was still swimming, and he didn’t have enough brain left to make fun of him for it. Iwaizumi looked down at the screen for a second and smiled. When he looked up, it turned into something knowing. “Having fun without me?”
“Oh, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa gasped. “You don’t know the half of it. I just had my third sexual awakening.”
Iwaizumi laughed, the sound cutting off through the headphones, but still as butterfly-inducing as it was in person.
“Yeah? Tell me about it.”
“Obviously.”