Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bass was pounding hard enough to make the walls tremble. A haze of smoke hung in the air, thick with the smell of cheap beer, alcohol, and joints. Plastic spiders dangled from the ceiling, fake cobwebs clung to the banisters, and a massive plastic skeleton was taped to the wall, its grin lit by flickering orange lights.

Oikawa wove his way through the crowd, careful not to spill the red cup in his hand. Everyone was dressed in something ridiculous—zombies, vampires, superheroes, a very questionable Pikachu—but he barely noticed. His eyes were busy scanning the room, scanning the crush of bodies for a familiar face, a flash of short dark hair—anything. The music was too loud to think, and every time someone brushed past him, he questioned again why he’d agreed to come in the first place.

But Iwa-chan was supposed to be here somewhere.

But if you’re wondering how Oikawa had ended up in this situation, then maybe we should go back a few weeks.

Oikawa was cooking. It was around one in the afternoon in San Juan, Argentina, and the small kitchen buzzed with pots bubbling on the stove. Behind him, on the kitchen island, his iPad was playing an hispanic song he had discovered a few days earlier thanks to one of his teammates. Little by little, his teammates had introduced him to Latin American music, and sometimes he caught himself dancing—or at least trying to. To be fair, he wasn’t half bad.

It was Sunday, and Sundays meant cooking for the week ahead. Oikawa liked Sundays. Not because he particularly enjoyed being stuck in the kitchen for hours making perfectly balanced meals, but because Sundays meant calling Iwaizumi.

Since leaving Japan, one of their biggest challenges had been staying in touch. The time difference did them no favors, but they had found ways to work around it. Sometimes, they talked while Iwaizumi was on his way to the campus gym where he was doing his master’s. Other times, Oikawa called him while reviewing plays or in the middle of his weekly chores—just like now.

Suddenly, the music cut off with the sound of an incoming call.

Oikawa dropped the wooden spoon into the pot and wiped his hands quickly on his apron, muttering “shit, shit” under his breath when the iPad slipped, though he caught it just in time.

“Why did you take so long?”

Oikawa rolled his eyes as soon as he heard Iwaizumi’s voice, but he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips.

“Some of us are busy, Iwa-chan. You wouldn’t understand.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and muttered a string of curses that made Oikawa smile. He grabbed the iPad, moved it onto the counter, and angled the camera toward himself as he stirred the soup again.

“What are you doing today?” Iwaizumi asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Oikawa noticed his best friend had propped his phone up somewhere, leaning back with his arms resting behind his head. His biceps flexed effortlessly with the movement.

Sometimes Oikawa wondered if he did it on purpose. Of course, he quickly dismissed the thought as soon as it appeared, though it didn’t stop the faint blush creeping across his cheeks. The truth was, Iwaizumi was incredibly attractive. Oikawa had always known that, but California had done something to him that Japan hadn’t. Maybe it was his skin, darker and more golden than Oikawa remembered, or the way his muscles seemed to have appeared overnight. But Oikawa knew better. What stood out the most wasn’t a physical change—it was the confidence. The way Iwaizumi spoke, relaxed, with that faint, easy smile; the way he walked through a crowd; how he carried himself—something Oikawa had witnessed firsthand a few months earlier when Iwaizumi had visited him in San Juan. It was addictive to watch.

So addictive, in fact, that he didn’t realize one of Iwaizumi’s eyebrows was raised, waiting.

Oikawa hadn’t answered.

“Soup,” he blurted, looking away. He lowered the heat on the stove and let the soup simmer, turning his attention back to the screen. He picked up the iPad, then set it back down on the island. “And you? What have you been up to?”

Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“There’s a Halloween party.”

“And you don’t like those, do you?” Oikawa asked, amusement in his tone. “It must be so frustrating for you, living the life of a frat boy and being invited to parties.”

“Fuck off,” Iwaizumi shot back without any real heat, a quiet laugh slipping out. “That’s not it. Halloween’s not for a couple of weeks—it lines up with your visit.”

That made Oikawa raise a brow.

“So you don’t want me to come, or…?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Iwaizumi replied instantly, rolling his eyes just as fast as Oikawa had earlier. “Of course I want you to come with me.”

Oikawa turned his back to the screen to focus on the soup again, though the color on his cheeks returned with a vengeance.

“I don’t see how that answers my question about what you did today, Iwa-chan,” he muttered, just loud enough for Iwaizumi to hear, his fingers tightening around the spoon.

“That’s what I was getting to, smartass—you never let me finish.” Oikawa couldn’t see him, but he knew Iwaizumi had rolled his eyes again. “My friends and I went out to buy costumes. That’s what I was trying to say.”

Oikawa chuckled and glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah? And what are you going as?”

There was the slightest shift in Iwaizumi’s expression—just enough for Oikawa to catch it. Slowly, that familiar confidence slipped back into place, his mouth curving into a crooked smile.

“You’ll see when you get here.”

“That’s not fair!”

Iwaizumi’s smirk deepened, and Oikawa could practically hear the satisfaction in his voice even through the screen.

“That’s what you get for being a know-it-all. Better start thinking of a costume.”

Oikawa groaned loudly, letting his head fall back with exaggerated drama. “I can’t just pull brilliance out of thin air, you know. Costumes take planning. Strategy.”

“You say that like it’s a volleyball match,” Iwaizumi replied, the laugh in his voice soft but certain.

“Everything is a match if you play it right,” Oikawa countered, leaning closer to the iPad, narrowing his eyes at the faint image of his best friend lounging with his arms crossed behind his head. Even through the glassy screen, he could see the effortless ease of Iwaizumi’s posture, the way his biceps flexed subtly with every stretch. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe I am,” Iwaizumi admitted with a shrug, his grin mischievous. “Watching you squirm is half the fun.”

Oikawa’s cheeks heated. He had thought he could maintain some composure, but his gaze lingered too long on the screen, tracing the easy curve of Iwaizumi’s smile, the golden tan of his skin catching the light in a way that made Oikawa’s stomach twist with something unfamiliar and deliciously electric. Quickly, he turned back to the soup, stirring with more force than necessary, as if the act of motion could distract him from noticing every little detail.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered quietly.

“And you’re dramatic,” Iwaizumi shot back, softer this time, teasing yet with a warmth that made Oikawa’s heart flutter.

A beat of silence followed, filled with the gentle hum of the stove and the faint sound of the city beyond Oikawa’s window. Not awkward, not tense—just heavy with familiarity, the kind that comes from years of shared memories and late-night calls. Oikawa let himself take a breath, his fingers tightening around the wooden spoon unconsciously.

“I still can’t believe you’re asking me to go to a Halloween party,” Oikawa said, voice low, though there was a hint of amusement threading through it. “Out of all the weekends…”

“You’ll survive,” Iwaizumi said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Besides, it’s not just any weekend. You’re coming here. This is about us hanging out.”

Oikawa’s heart did a little flip at that, but he pretended not to notice. “I don’t even know how parties work there,” he said, his voice sounding lower. “What if they speak English to me and I don’t know how to reply? I don’t wanna be rude to your friends, Iwa, they’re going to hate me—”

“They’re not going to hate you,” Iwaizumi tells him, his voice softening, the teasing edge now gone for just a heartbeat. “You make it very hard to hate you, you know that?”

“That isn’t true, you always say I’m annoying—”

“Yeah, but it’s different,” Iwaizumi interrupted, even softer now, but still with that confident, knowing tone. “I’ve been your friend since we were what? Four years old? Even if someone wanted to dislike you, they can’t. You don’t give them the chance.” 

Oikawa’s fingers curled around the spoon in his hand, a little too tight. He looked down at the soup, trying not to melt at the way Iwaizumi’s words seemed to reach straight through the screen and settle in his chest.

“And besides,” Iwaizumi added, a playful glint returning to his eyes, “I’ll be there. So really… who’s going to stand a chance?”

Oikawa let out a small, self-deprecating laugh, pretending to ignore the fluttering in his chest. He turned back to the stove for a moment, then leaned toward the screen, voice lower, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness.

“Yeah, well… that’s true,” he said slowly, a sly edge creeping into his tone. “Iwa-chan always has my back, doesn’t he?”

For a few moments, they lingered in the space between conversation and silence, the distance between San Juan and Irvine shrinking to something almost tangible, carried by the weight of teasing words and quiet glances.

Then Iwaizumi’s grin widened again, cutting through the moment. “Anyways… start thinking of a costume, Oikawa. We can go shopping here once you have an idea. And I’ll be watching—careful what you choose.”

Oikawa groaned dramatically, but there was a spark of excitement behind it. “Fine, fine. I’ll think of something. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you, Iwa-chan.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Iwaizumi said, voice smooth, teasing, leaving the lingering warmth of his presence even through the screen.

Before he could notice it, the weeks passed by.

Oikawa stepped off the plane, the air brushing against his face as he navigated through the busy terminal. The chatter of travelers, the rolling suitcases, and the faint scent of coffee from the terminal cafés made him feel slightly disoriented—but in a good way. He gripped his carry-on bag a little tighter, scanning the crowd.

He had never been here before. To be honest, Oikawa hasn’t really travelled that much aside from one time when he went to South Korea with his family, but he was around the age of seven when that happened, and he didn’t even remember half of it. So, aside from Argentina, the United States of America is the second country he gets to visit.

Oikawa found a bench near the arrivals area and sat down, trying to calm himself. Why was he so nervous all of a sudden? It wasn’t like he was meeting with an online friend for the first time. This was the same guy he had known since he was a kid, there was no reason for Oikawa to be this freaked out. But that fact didn’t stop him from thinking about all the little moments—the way Iwaizumi had teased him on their recent calls, the playful smirks, the soft admissions that had lingered just long enough to make Oikawa’s heart beat faster. Each memory twisted in his chest, a mix of warmth, anticipation, and something sharper—something he couldn’t quite name. 

Maybe he did have some reasons after all.

He remembered a specific late-night practice session back in high school, sitting on the gym floor while everyone else had left. Back in the day, when he was the captain of the volleyball team, he used to stay a little bit longer just to practice, and Iwaizumi, not wanting to leave him alone, stayed with the brown haired man to keep an eye on him.

“I’m just making sure you don’t hurt yourself,” he had always said.

It was always like that. That one time, Iwaizumi had stretched lazily, his hand brushing Oikawa’s shoulder in the most casual way, and Oikawa had spent the next hour on his way home trying to act like it hadn’t made his stomach flip.

And the long-distance calls—God, they were the worst. It seemed like each call had added a whole new layer of tension. 

Sometimes Iwaizumi would wander into the frame in nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower and a towel draped casually over his shoulders. He spoke as if nothing were unusual, while Oikawa bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to stare at the way the lines of his muscles shifted with every movement.

Other times, he’d answer Oikawa’s call straight from the gym, his shirt plastered to his chest with sweat, earbuds hanging loosely around his neck as he muttered, “Give me a sec, I’m just walking out.” His voice would be slightly breathless, low, and rough in a way that sent a shiver down Oikawa’s spine.

Iwaizumi had no right to look, sound, or be that hot.

Then there were the moments when Iwaizumi wasn’t even sweaty or shirtless, just effortlessly devastating. Like the time he leaned too close to the camera while explaining how muscle fibers tore and rebuilt themselves, his tone animated and his eyes alight with passion. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing in sharp, confident motions, and Oikawa couldn’t concentrate on the words because all he could think about was how damn attractive it was when Iwa-chan got serious about something.

“See, when you train, you’re basically causing tiny tears in your muscle fibers,” Iwaizumi had said, leaning forward, his brows furrowing with focus. “And when they repair, they grow back stronger. That’s how you build mass. It’s not magic—it’s literally your body adapting.”

Oikawa had hummed faintly, pretending to follow along, though his gaze had wandered from Iwaizumi’s mouth to the way his forearm flexed as he gestured. “Mmm. Stronger, huh? Guess that explains you,” he had murmured, hoping his voice didn’t sound as strained as he felt.

Iwaizumi had snorted. “Don’t act like you don’t get it, dumbass. You push yourself harder than anyone I know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oikawa had replied, his lips quirking even as his stomach flipped. “Still, Iwa-chan lecturing me about muscles, who knew that’d be the highlight of my week?”

For a split second, Iwaizumi had blinked, caught off guard, before shaking his head with a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Oikawa hadn’t said it out loud, but at that moment, staring at his best friend’s glowing face through the screen, he had thought: and you’re so hot.

It was infuriating because Oikawa could never tell if Iwaizumi was doing it on purpose or if he was simply… like that. Natural. Comfortable in his own skin. The kind of man who didn’t even have to try to drive him crazy.

Back in Japan, Iwaizumi had been grounded, yes, but still a little rough around the edges—serious about training, quick to snap at Oikawa’s antics, always dependable but never showy. He had carried himself with the quiet, steady confidence of someone who knew his strengths but didn’t feel the need to flaunt them.

But now that he was in California, though… Iwaizumi was different. Something about crossing the ocean, about throwing himself into a new world where no one had any preconceptions about him, had stripped away whatever hesitations he used to have. He walked taller, shoulders squared in a way that felt deliberate. He smiled wider, laughed louder, and there was a new, dangerous kind of ease in the way he teased. He’d toss off cocky little remarks without missing a beat, smirking as if he knew exactly what effect they had.

It wasn’t just confidence anymore. It was edge. Smugness. A streak of cockiness that suited him far too well. He knew his body was stronger, leaner, more powerful than it had ever been, and he carried himself like a man who had put in the work and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

And Oikawa—well, Oikawa was suffering for it. Suffering because, at the same time, he wondered—unwillingly, bitterly—if Iwaizumi was like this with everyone. Did he laugh that easily around his new friends, sling his arm around their shoulders, toss them the same smug grin he so carelessly aimed through the camera at Oikawa? Did Iwaizumi tease them the way he teased him? Did he lean close when he spoke? The thought made his stomach twist. He hated it, hated the way his chest tightened, hated the frown tugging at his mouth before he could stop it. It was ridiculous, really. Iwaizumi wasn’t his. He had no claim. And yet…

The jealousy sat there, sharp and stubborn, no matter how many times he tried to shove it aside.

It was stupid, really. Iwaizumi was—God, he was everything. Handsome in that infuriating, unpolished way, like he didn’t even realize how magnetic he was. Strong jaw, shoulders built like he’d been carved out of stone, eyes that softened in the smallest, most unexpected moments. And his arms, those were the worst of all. Thick, powerful veins stood out whenever he flexed or even just reached for something, muscles shifting beneath his skin with casual strength. They weren’t just big, they were functional, the kind of arms that told the story of every weight lifted, every spike drilled, every hour of sweat put in. Oikawa had watched them countless times on calls, the way Iwaizumi would absentmindedly stretch, biceps taut, forearms roped with lean muscle. It drove him insane. And it wasn’t just his body. He was smart— too smart, really, throwing out terms from his sports science classes like second nature, explaining things with that sharp, clear voice that made people actually want to listen. And he was kind, thoughtful in ways that sneaked up on you, like carrying extra water just in case someone forgot theirs, or staying late to spot a teammate who was struggling. A total catch. The kind who held doors open, who checked in without making a show of it.

And Oikawa knew—because Matsukawa, with that loose tongue of his, had once let it slip over a late-night call—that Californian girls and boys had noticed. That Iwaizumi wasn’t exactly lonely over there.

“You wouldn’t believe how fast they line up for him,” Matsukawa had chuckled, only realizing too late the silence on the other end of the line.

Oikawa had laughed it off, of course, as if it didn’t matter. As if it didn’t gut him to imagine Iwaizumi pressed up against someone else, all that confidence and warmth and strength spent on strangers who didn’t even know him the way Oikawa did.

And that was the cruelest part: knowing he wasn’t wrong for thinking Iwaizumi was irresistible. He just wasn’t the only one.

Or was he?

They had always danced around it—these fleeting moments, these subtle touches—but never crossed the line. Not fully. The tension had lingered, unspoken, but very much alive. And now, with the plane behind him and the terminal bustling around him, Oikawa was finally here.

The arrivals hall buzzed with voices, rolling suitcases, and the faint echo of overhead announcements that Oikawa only half heard. He stood near the railing where families clustered, flowers clutched in eager hands, children bouncing on their toes to be the first to spot their parents. Oikawa had no bouquet, no handwritten sign, nothing to disguise the restless way his fingers toyed with the strap of his carry-on. His eyes kept darting to the automatic doors that slid open and shut with every new wave of travelers.

He wasn’t nervous. Oikawa told himself that more than once, straightening his posture each time he caught the flutter in his chest. He was simply tired from the long flight, that was all. His body ached from being folded into an economy seat for too many hours, his skin prickled from recycled air. It was exhaustion making him fidget, nothing else. Nothing to do with the thought of Iwaizumi—waiting somewhere out there, probably leaning against a pillar with that maddeningly confident grin.

Oikawa rolled his shoulders back. He’d make a show of it. He always did. Months apart or not, he wouldn’t let Iwaizumi see him falter.

He can do it.

The sliding doors hissed open, and another cluster spilled out. Oikawa’s gaze skimmed over them automatically—businessmen tugging at their jackets, a young couple holding hands, a woman trying to juggle her luggage and a phone call. And then his breath caught.

There.

Leaning casually against a concrete pillar, arms crossed on his chest as though the whole world could wait for him, stood Iwaizumi Hajime. His dark hair was a little longer than Oikawa remembered, curling faintly at the ends, and the California sun had deepened his tan, painting warmth into his skin. His posture was easy, but his grin—God, that grin—was sharp with recognition the moment their eyes met.

Yeah, no, he can’t do it.

Oikawa’s pulse stumbled. For a moment, he could only stand there, heat creeping up his neck, suitcase handle biting into his palm. He wanted to stride forward with all the grace of a celebrity walking off a jet, but his legs felt strangely uncoordinated, like he’d forgotten how to walk.

“Oikawa.”

Just his name. That deep, familiar voice cut through the noise of the terminal and snapped him back into himself. His chest tightened, and before he knew it, he was moving, weaving through the throng of people until he stood a step away.

For a beat, neither of them spoke. Up close, the reality of months apart pressed in. Oikawa could see the lines at the corners of Iwaizumi’s eyes, the faint scar near his temple he hadn’t noticed before. Iwaizumi’s gaze swept over him quickly, almost like he was checking—making sure Oikawa was really there, solid, whole.

And then Iwaizumi opened his arms. Not wide, not dramatic, but enough.

Oikawa hesitated, because of course he did. Hugging Iwaizumi wasn’t unusual—they’d done it countless times before matches, after victories, even in moments of quiet defeat. But now, after all this time, it felt monumental. His throat tightened, words choking back unspoken.

So he stepped in, arms sliding around Iwaizumi’s shoulders. The first contact was stiff, awkward—the sort of hug between old friends trying to bridge a gap without admitting how wide it had grown. Oikawa’s bag strap dug into his side, his elbow knocked clumsily against Iwaizumi’s arm, and, for a second, he thought the whole thing might collapse into laughter.

But then Iwaizumi’s hand pressed firmly against his back, steady, grounding. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of Oikawa’s shirt, and something inside him unclenched. He let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and leaned in fully, cheek brushing Iwaizumi’s temple. The hug softened, melted, the awkwardness dissolving until all that remained was the quiet reassurance of being exactly where he wanted to be.

“Missed you,” Oikawa heard himself murmur, barely above the din of the airport. It slipped out before he could catch it, honest and unpolished.

Iwaizumi’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle. “No shit, dumbass. Missed you too.”

They drew back reluctantly, the space between them charged in a way Oikawa refused to name. His hands lingered at Iwaizumi’s arms for half a second too long before he let them drop, sliding the mask of composure back onto his face.

Fuck… he’s gotten so strong, Oikawa thought. 

“Well,” he said, tossing his hair with a practiced flick. “You’re lucky I decided to grace Irvine with my presence. This city owes you for having me.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, shouldering Oikawa’s carry-on out of his grasp before he could protest. “You’re so full of shit. Glad to see you didn’t change at all.”

“Wrong,” Oikawa corrected smoothly, falling into step beside him as they moved toward the exit. “I only got better. More charming, more handsome. Admit it, Iwa-chan, you were worried I’d outshine even the California sun.”

“Please,” Iwaizumi snorted, though his grin betrayed him. “The sun still wins by a landslide.”

Oikawa gasped, clutching his chest. “How cruel! You’d say that after months of separation?”

Their banter slipped into place as naturally as breathing, but beneath every exchange, Oikawa felt the hum of something deeper. Each glance carried weight, each brush of shoulders sent sparks skittering through him. He wanted to say more—wanted to ask if Iwaizumi had really missed him, if he’d thought about him in quiet hours the way Oikawa had. But the words tangled on his tongue.

Instead, he smirked, letting his voice lilt with practiced ease. “You know, if you were planning to make me wait here like some tragic lover at the gate, you should have at least brought flowers.”

Iwaizumi shook his head, but his voice softened. “Didn’t think I needed ‘em. You’re already here, aren’t you?”

The words were simple, tossed casually, but they lodged in Oikawa’s chest. He stumbled for a reply, hiding it behind another scoff.

Outside, the California air wrapped around him—not too warm, definitely dry, carrying scents of asphalt and ocean brine. Oikawa inhaled deeply, tilting his face up to the endless blue sky. Iwaizumi’s presence was solid beside him, suitcase rolling easily at his side, and for the first time since stepping off the plane, Oikawa felt his pulse begin to settle.

The parking garage smelled faintly of concrete and motor oil, footsteps echoing off the low ceilings as they walked. Oikawa pretended not to notice how Iwaizumi’s hand occasionally brushed against the small of his back, steadying him as he steered him through the crowd. It wasn’t necessary—Oikawa knew how to walk, thank you very much—but he didn’t complain. Not when that warmth lingered like a secret he wasn’t supposed to enjoy.

“So,” Iwaizumi said as they wound through the rows of cars, “a whole week off. Didn’t think you’d survive without volleyball for that long.”

Oikawa scoffed. “Excuse you, Iwa-chan. I’ve worked hard for this vacation. It’ll be hard for them not having me around.”

“Hard?” Iwaizumi lifted an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Or already celebrating because their annoying setter is finally leaving them alone?”

“You’re so mean!” Oikawa almost whined, an almost visible pout on his face. “Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder. When I return, they’ll worship me even more.”

Iwaizumi snorted. “Pretty sure they already worship you enough.”

“They should. I deserve it.”

They slipped easily into that rhythm—Oikawa playing the over-the-top diva, Iwaizumi gruffly grounding him, both of them covering the raw relief of seeing each other again. The months apart had stretched longer than either wanted to admit, but walking side by side, it was almost like no time had passed.

When they reached Iwaizumi’s car, Oikawa blinked. “This is yours?”

The car was a sensible sedan, clearly secondhand but well-kept. Its dark blue paint had dulled in places from the California sun, and there was a faint scratch near the back bumper that looked like it had been there for years. The interior was tidy, the seats worn just enough to show it had been lived in, and it smelled faintly of cedar and detergent—unmistakably Iwaizumi.

“Yeah. Why?”

Oikawa circled the car, inspecting it like a critic at a gallery. “I was expecting… I don’t know. A jeep, maybe. Something rugged and manly, befitting the great Iwa-chan. But this,” he tapped the roof lightly, “this screams responsible adult.”

“Good,” Iwaizumi said flatly, popping the trunk and tossing Oikawa’s bag inside. “That’s what I am.”

Oikawa slid into the passenger seat with a snort. “Boring, you mean.”

The engine hummed to life, and as they pulled out of the garage, sunlight spilled across Iwaizumi’s face. Oikawa found himself staring, tracing the way his jaw had sharpened, the faint scruff shadowing his chin. California had changed him—just a little. He looked older, steadier, like he belonged here.

“So what’s your day-to-day like?” Oikawa asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone full workaholic.”

“Depends what you call full,” Iwaizumi said with a shrug, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. “Classes, workouts, yeah, but it’s not all training and studying. I’ve got a good group here—guys from the program, some from the gym. We hang out a lot. Parties, beach bonfires, that kind of thing.”

Oikawa blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Parties? You?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Iwaizumi shot him a sideways glance, smirking. “You think I sit around in my apartment all night?”

“Well, I didn’t picture you as… a frat boy for real, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, lips quirking, though his voice had an edge he didn’t quite mean to let slip. “Next thing you’ll tell me is you’ve got a keg stand record.”

Iwaizumi laughed, low and unbothered. “Not yet, but give me time.”

Oikawa’s fingers drummed against his knee, eyes narrowing faintly as he imagined it—Iwaizumi surrounded by new friends, laughing around bonfires, strangers pressed close in crowded rooms. The image sat oddly in his chest. “Huh. So you’re… popular now.”

“Don’t make it sound weird,” Iwaizumi said, though his grin widened. “I’m just… busy. There’s always something going on here. Haven’t been bored once.”

Oikawa forced a smile, tilting his head as if it didn’t sting a little. “Of course not. Who could ever be bored with Iwa-chan around?”

Iwaizumi hummed but kept his eyes on the road. “It’s not like I’m the most social guy ever, though.”

“Really?” Oikawa leaned back in his seat, one eyebrow arched. “From what I hear, you’ve practically become the life of the party here.”

Iwaizumi gave him a quick side glance. “From what you hear?”

Oikawa’s mouth twitched.

Damn Matsukawa and his loose tongue, Iwaizumi thought. He should’ve known better than to let something slip when Oikawa was fishing for information. But it was too late now.

“Let’s just say I have sources.”

“Sources, huh?” Iwaizumi said, shaking his head. “Figures. You’ve always been nosy.”

“I call it being curious.” Oikawa flicked an invisible speck of dust from his pants, his voice lilting with mock innocence. “So, tell me, Iwa-chan. Between all these bonfires and frat parties and… new friends…” he lingered on the word a little too much, “how’s your love life?”

That earned him a full laugh, rich and unguarded. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

Oikawa shrugged, but his nails pressed faintly into his knee. “Why should I? Best friends are supposed to share everything.”

But you never told me anything.

Iwaizumi’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. His grin softened into something smaller, but his tone stayed easy. “I’ve met people. Gone on a few dates. Nothing serious.”

“Mmm.” Oikawa forced a hum, tilting his head as though the answer didn’t matter. “A few dates.” He remembered Matsukawa’s slip—the drunken laugh, the careless mention of Iwaizumi ‘hooking up with someone at a beach party.’ He’d pretended not to care then, and he pretended now. But the thought of Iwaizumi with someone else, someone who got to lean close and taste that grin—it made his stomach tighten.

“Why?” Oikawa said, finally, tone airy. “Don’t tell me Irvine hasn’t lined up eligible candidates for you. With your muscles and your whole… rugged charm thing, I’m sure you’re everyone’s type here.”

There was a pause, the quiet hum of tires on asphalt filling the space. When Iwaizumi spoke again, his voice was low, measured. “You say that like it bothers you.”

Oikawa’s head snapped toward him, smirk faltering. “Bothers me?” He laughed, a little too loudly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Iwa-chan. Why would it bother me? I’m thrilled. Honestly. Knowing you’re… keeping busy.”

The words came out smooth, but the second meaning clung to them, sticky and transparent. Oikawa knew it. And judging by the flicker in Iwaizumi’s eyes, he knew it too.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut like a string pulled too tight. Then Iwaizumi’s hand shifted—just slightly—brushing against Oikawa’s. It could’ve been nothing. It probably was nothing, Iwaizumi was just adjusting something on the dashboard but it didn’t matter to Oikawa. The warmth lingered, deliberate enough to make his breath hitch.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. I shouldn’t have said anything—

“Don’t overthink it,” Iwaizumi said finally, his tone softer now. “Yeah, I’ve gone out. Met people. But nothing’s stuck.”

Oikawa swallowed, forcing a scoff. “What, picky now?”

Iwaizumi laughed again, shaking his head. “Something like that.”

Oikawa leaned back, feigning nonchalance, but inside, relief fluttered through him—ridiculous, irrational relief. He had no claim on Iwaizumi. None. And yet, knowing nothing had “stuck” made it easier to breathe.

“You know,” Iwaizumi continued, voice dropping just a notch, “I don’t really care about all that. Parties, dates, whatever. I’d rather spend time with people who actually matter.” He licked his lips. “It’s fun sometimes, but I’m not actively looking forward to that.”

Oikawa’s chest tightened. He turned to the window quickly, letting his hair fall forward to hide the flush threatening his cheeks. His reflection smirked back at him, polished and practiced, but his fingers gripped the seatbelt a little too tightly.

“Lucky for you, I’m here then,” he said, aiming for lighthearted, but his voice cracked just enough to betray the weight beneath it.

Iwaizumi didn’t press. He never did, not when Oikawa wasn’t ready. Instead, his hand shifted again, hovering briefly on Oikawa’s knee when they slowed at a red light—as though to anchor him, wordless reassurance in the warmth of his palm. It lingered just a heartbeat too long before retreating.

Oikawa let out a breath, quiet, almost shaky. They didn’t talk about it. They never did. But the tension hummed between them, alive and undeniable, weaving itself into every casual word, every fleeting touch. And for now, that was enough.

“I’ve only got seven days, Iwa-chan. I have to maximize my fun.”

The car ride carried on like that, Oikawa filling the silence with chatter about San Juan, stories about his teammates, exaggerated tales of fans and matches. Iwaizumi listened, occasionally shaking his head, occasionally laughing outright, but always with that attentive air that made Oikawa feel like every word landed.

When Oikawa finally paused to breathe, Iwaizumi glanced at him. “You look good.”

The words were simple, tossed out casually, but they landed heavy. Oikawa blinked, caught off guard.

“Of course I do,” he said quickly, defaulting to his mask. “Haven’t you seen me trending lately? My skin, my hair, my—”

“I mean it,” Iwaizumi cut in, his tone quieter. “You look… happy. Healthy.”

Heat crawled up Oikawa’s neck, and he turned to stare out the window. His reflection in the glass smirked back at him, but his pulse betrayed him, racing far too fast for something so simple.

By the time they pulled up outside Iwaizumi’s apartment, Oikawa had mostly reined himself back in. Mostly. He climbed out, stretching dramatically. “So this is it, huh? The humble abode of Hajime Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi unlocked the door and gestured inside. “Don’t expect much.”

The place was tidy, neat in a way that spoke of Iwaizumi’s discipline. A modest shelf by the door held a few framed photos—beach trips, friends’ laughter frozen mid-moment, a schedule of his classes. The living area was open, with a couch positioned to catch the light from the windows and a small dining table tucked neatly in the corner. A few well-placed plants gave the space a lived-in warmth, and scattered magazines hinted at both Iwaizumi’s interests and a touch of casual carelessness.

So cozy, Oikawa thought to himself, setting his suitcase down and wandering through, taking in the details—the framed photos on the shelf, the stack of sports magazines on the coffee table, the faint scent of detergent and cedar.

“It’s very you,” Oikawa pronounced finally.

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be good or bad?”

“Good,” Oikawa admitted softly, before his smile returned. “Though clearly it needs my touch. A few plants, maybe some curtains that aren’t so plain—”

“Don’t push it.”

Both of them took their shoes off and left them by the entrance. Oikawa wandered toward the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peek out. The sun was low, throwing long streaks of gold across the streets below. A few porches were already dressed for Halloween—pumpkins on steps, paper bats taped to windows, even a blow-up ghost wobbling in a neighbor’s yard. The air that drifted in when Iwaizumi cracked a window was mild, warm still, but with that crisp edge that hinted at fall.

“California autumn,” Oikawa said, almost to himself. “Feels like summer back home.”

“Yeah, well,” Iwaizumi replied, tugging his hoodie over his head and tossing it onto the couch, “don’t expect sweater weather. Some people carve pumpkins in shorts around here.”

Oikawa wrinkled his nose but grinned. “Ridiculous. Autumn should be cozy. Scarves, coats, holding hot drinks with both hands, all of that.”

“You mean dramatics.”

“I mean aesthetic, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi snorted but didn’t argue. He leaned against the arm of the couch, his own arms crossed loosely over his chest. “So. You wanna crash for a bit, or do something? You’ve been on a plane for what, twelve hours?”

Oikawa flopped down onto the couch without asking, sinking into the cushions with a groan. “Fifteen. Pure torture. They don’t even know how to make decent tea.” He stretched out his legs, toes brushing the coffee table, before tilting his head to eye Iwaizumi. “What are my options, host?”

Iwaizumi thought for a moment. “We could grab food. There’s a place nearby—you’d like it, they’ve got empanadas that are almost as good as the ones we had when I went to San Juan.”

“Almost? I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Or,” Iwaizumi continued, ignoring him, “we could head to the campus. They’ve got some stuff set up for Halloween—pumpkin carving, stalls, that kind of thing. My friends are probably hanging around.”

Oikawa’s nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly at the mention of campus. Pumpkin carving with Iwaizumi’s new circle of friends—people who got to laugh with him, see him every day, maybe hear that warm chuckle in person instead of through a screen—it pressed right against that sore, unspoken part of his chest. “Pumpkin carving, huh? Do I get to stab things with knives?”

“You’re not supposed to stab them, idiot. You carve.”

“Semantics,” Oikawa said breezily. He sat up a little straighter, tossing his hair back with a careless flick. “Mm, pumpkin carving sounds… messy. And public. Not really my style.” His smile was quick, practiced, but his fingers fiddled with the seam of the couch cushion. I’d rather spend time alone with you, he wanted to add; however, Oikawa didn’t say anything. Instead, he added, “Let’s test those empanadas. I’ll be the judge of their quality.”

Iwaizumi gave him a look, half-amused, half-suspicious. If he noticed something about his best friend’s behavior, he didn’t mention it. “You just don’t want to lose to me in carving.”

“Lose? Please, my artistry is unmatched. But you’d cry when mine turned out prettier than yours, and I’m trying to be considerate of your fragile ego.”

That earned him a snort. “Yeah, right.” Iwaizumi pushed off the couch, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. “Fine. Empanadas it is. You’re buying, though. You’re the guest.”

“Excuse me?” Oikawa shot to his feet, indignant. “That’s not how being a guest works! The host is supposed to pamper me, feed me, entertain me, flatter me—”

“Don’t push your luck, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa huffed at the nickname, but the sparkle in his eyes gave him away. He took some time to grab his wallet and a jacket from the suitcase he’d half-unpacked by the wall, sliding into it with practiced elegance. “Fine. But if they’re terrible, you’re personally responsible for my suffering.”

“Deal,” Iwaizumi said dryly, holding the door open for him.

The hallway outside smelled faintly of detergent and someone’s cooking. Oikawa caught himself glancing at the easy way Iwaizumi locked up behind them, the casual assurance in his movements. 

Outside, the air was warm with just the slightest evening bite, the sky streaked in burnt orange and violet. Halloween decorations clung to balconies and front doors—paper skeletons swaying gently, the soft glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickering to life. Kids’ laughter echoed down the street as a group ran past, capes and masks fluttering.

Oikawa shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, pretending to admire the scenery. “I have to admit, Iwa-chan,” he said lightly, “California’s not as tacky as I expected.”

Iwaizumi glanced at him, lips curving in that half-smile Oikawa knew too well. “Give it time.”

The afternoon slipped into the kind of golden light that only California seemed to manage—warm, wide, and humming softly against the skin. The drive to the city was easy; traffic light, the radio low. Oikawa had rolled down the window halfway, his hair catching the breeze as he chattered about San Juan, Argentina, and volleyball, and everything in between.

“So there I am,” he was saying, “at this asado my teammate’s uncle invited me to. I think it’s a little family lunch, right? Quiet, maybe a dozen people. I show up—there are seventy. Seventy people. Music blasting, kids running around, tables full of meat. They hand me a plate and I think, ‘Okay, I’ll be polite, I’ll take a little.’”

“And?” Iwaizumi asked, side-eyeing him as they stopped at a light.

“Iwa-chan, they refilled my plate three times. Every time I said I was full, someone shouted, ‘No, no, you have to try the ribs!’ or ‘You haven’t had the morcilla!’ I thought I was going to die. It was delicious, but I’m pretty sure I ate half a cow.”

Iwaizumi laughed, a low, genuine sound that made Oikawa’s chest tighten in that familiar, painful way. “Sounds like you fit right in, though. You never say no to attention—or food.”

Oikawa scoffed at that. “Are you calling me greedy, Iwa-chan?”

“I’m saying you’ve got range.”

They reached the empanada shop just as the city began to buzz with early evening crowds. It was tucked into a little strip mall near the shopping center, the kind of place that smelled like spice and warmth the second you opened the door. The woman behind the counter greeted them in rapid Spanish, and Oikawa slipped effortlessly into conversation, his accent soft but confident. Iwaizumi watched with quiet amusement, half-smiling as Oikawa ordered for them both.

When they finally sat outside with a cardboard tray of empanadas, steam curling into the air, Oikawa handed him one. “This better be good, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi took a bite. “Just shut up and eat it, dumbass.”

Oikawa gave it a bite, leaning back in his chair. He let out a quiet hum of approval. “Mmm… Not bad, not bad. I could teach them a thing or two.”

“Right. Because you survived one asado and now you’re a local.”

“I’m glad you get it.”

They wandered through the nearby shopping center afterward, drinks in hand, the last of the sunset painting the shop windows gold. The air carried that faint, dry crispness of late October—warm enough for short sleeves, cool enough for goosebumps when the wind stirred. Strings of fake cobwebs hung from awnings, paper bats fluttered whenever someone passed too close, and a few shops already had Halloween playlists humming low through their outdoor speakers.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi moved with no particular hurry, the easy rhythm of people who’d fallen back into step without realizing it. Each of them held a drink—Oikawa’s a frothy iced coffee topped with cinnamon, Iwaizumi’s a plain cold brew sweating in his hand. They’d demolished the empanadas not long ago, and the warmth of the food still lingered pleasantly between them.

The shopping center was lively but not crowded. Groups of students strolled from store to store, laughter and conversation drifting lazily through the open-air courtyard. A few kids darted past in light-up sneakers, parents trailing after them. The sky was slowly slipping from gold to violet, and the overhead lights were flickering on, one by one.

Oikawa tilted his head back as they passed a boutique window lined with tiny orange lanterns. “Irvine really doesn’t do subtle, huh?” he mused, eyeing the extravagant decorations. “Back home, we had a few paper pumpkins, maybe a plastic skeleton if someone felt bold. Here it’s—what’s the word? Cinematic.”

Iwaizumi chuckled. “Yeah, they go all out. There’s a house near campus that’s got a twelve-foot skeleton in the yard. Cost them, like, three hundred bucks.”

“Three hundred?” Oikawa blinked, almost scandalized. “For a skeleton?”

“It’s America.”

Oikawa made a face. “That explains nothing and everything at once.”

They walked on, and for a while the conversation drifted easily—small talk about the drive, about the weather, about the way everything in California seemed too big, too bright, too loud. Yet between the lines there was comfort, a familiarity built from years of knowing exactly how to fill each other’s silences.

A group of college students—mostly girls around their age—passed them on the walkway, laughter spilling like windchimes. Oikawa caught the subtle glances thrown his way, the quick whisper one of them leaned to share with another. He didn’t react, didn’t smirk or preen. He just let the moment slide by like static in the background. Once upon a time, he might have basked in it. Now, he simply noticed it the way one notices the color of the sky—automatic, unimportant.

Iwaizumi noticed, too, though Oikawa didn’t see the faint crease of his brow as they passed.

They slowed near the central fountain, where water cascaded in quiet rhythm under strings of soft yellow bulbs. A few benches were occupied by students with shopping bags, and couples sharing ice cream. Oikawa dropped into one of the open spots, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped his drink.

“This place is nice,” he said after a moment, watching the ripples of water dance in the light. “It’s got… atmosphere.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said, sitting beside him. “I come here sometimes after class. Helps clear my head.”

“Do you?” Oikawa turned his gaze on him, curious. “What, you just sit here and brood like a mysterious local hero?”

“I don’t brood,” Iwaizumi protested, though his grin betrayed him.

“Sure you don’t.” Oikawa’s tone was teasing, but there was a softness under it— a kind of fondness that threaded through the banter.

A beat passed. The wind caught Oikawa’s hair, tossing a few strands into his eyes. He brushed them aside and looked around again, watching the people drift through the square. His gaze lingered on a pair of little kids in matching pumpkin shirts, chasing each other around their mother’s legs. Something about the scene made him smile, quiet and wistful.

He didn’t notice Iwaizumi watching him, not at first. The golden light caught on the edge of Oikawa’s hair, making it gleam like copper. His lashes cast small shadows when he blinked. It was unfair, really, how effortlessly he fit into moments like this—like he belonged to the glow itself.

“So,” Iwaizumi said finally, breaking the silence before it got too heavy, “you still haven’t told me what you’re doing for the Halloween party.”

Oikawa turned back to him with a smile. “Ah, the great costume mystery. Why ruin the surprise?”

“You don’t even have a costume yet, do you?”

“I have ideas,” Oikawa said primly, leaning back.

“Dangerous sentence, coming from you.”

Oikawa gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I am the very embodiment of good taste!”

“Last time you said that, you wore glitter to a practice match.”

“It was thematic!”

“It was distracting.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Iwaizumi laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer charming.”

They sat like that for a moment longer, the playful energy between them humming low but steady. Oikawa’s gaze drifted again, drawn to the Halloween displays lining the nearby storefronts—plastic cauldrons, pumpkin-shaped mugs, rows of fake cobwebs draped over shelves. He thought of the party, of the way Iwaizumi had said I want you to come with me with such casual confidence, like it had been the most natural thing in the world.

It made something inside him flutter uncomfortably.

The air had cooled a little more by now, and Oikawa tugged lightly at his jacket sleeve. When Iwaizumi stood, he followed. They started walking again, past the fountain, toward the busier stretch of the shopping center where the store windows reflected streaks of amber and the hum of conversation thickened.

Oikawa found himself talking just to fill the air—about his flight, about his plans for the week, about the fans who had somehow found his Argentine P.O. box and sent letters all the way across the ocean. Iwaizumi listened with that steady, quiet attention that always undid him, humming or nodding occasionally.

When their path narrowed between two shops, their shoulders brushed. Just for a second—but Oikawa felt it. A spark that lingered longer than it should have.

He didn’t step away.

Iwaizumi didn’t either.

The path widened again, and the contact broke, but the warmth stayed.

They passed a costume store, bright and crowded even from the outside. A cardboard Dracula grinned from the display window, surrounded by witches’ hats, fake fangs, and shelves lined with masks. A bold orange sign read HALLOWEEN SALE – FINAL WEEK in dripping black letters.

Oikawa stopped, drawn to the display like a moth to light. “Oh,” he said, tilting his head. “So this is where you got your mysterious outfit?”

Iwaizumi smirked. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You’ll find out when you see it.”

Oikawa clicked his tongue. “You’re cruel.”

“Deal with it.”

He made a face but didn’t argue. His reflection in the glass caught his eye—his hair tousled from the wind, his jacket slightly open, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Behind him, Iwaizumi’s reflection stood steady, solid, familiar. Together, they looked almost like the ghosts of something they hadn’t yet dared to name.

“Hajime?”

The name—his first name—cut through the noise, warm and familiar. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it before, but hearing someone else say it so easily, without hesitation or formality, caught him out off guard. Back in Japan, people rarely used given names unless they were close—really close. But here, in California, it seemed natural. Normal. It was weird to hear it, but his curiosity piqued nonetheless. 

A girl stood a few paces away, her smile bright enough to rival the gold spilling from the shop windows. She had soft brown hair tucked behind one ear, a light jacket thrown casually over her shoulders, and the kind of easy, sunlit energy that drew eyes without trying.

“I knew it was you!” she said, already stepping closer.

Iwaizumi’s face lit up in recognition. “Hey, Jessica! Long time no see.”

Before Oikawa could process it, Jessica was in Iwaizumi’s arms, hugging him like she’d been waiting all week to do it. Her arms looped around his shoulders, her chin brushed his collarbone, and though it couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, Oikawa felt every one of them stretch thin. It looked intimate. Intimate enough.

Well, well, now who’s this?

When they finally pulled apart, her hands lingered on his arms. “You’ve been impossible to catch lately,” she teased, and Oikawa couldn’t miss the way her fingers trailed down before letting go.

He stood a step behind. Something uneasy stirred low in his chest. Did she not see he was also there? Oikawa almost wanted to scoff at that because they talked easily, comfortably. Oikawa was not the best at speaking English, honestly, but he easily caught how she asked about one of Iwaizumi’s classes, about some friend of theirs, about the Halloween party this weekend, and how she couldn’t wait to see him there.

See. Him. See him.

“Still going as what you told me?” she asked with a grin that was just a little too knowing.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pretty much settled on it. Liam and Noah kind of convinced me in the last second to match with them.”

She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and Oikawa caught the small gestures—the quick lick of her lips, the way she shifted from one foot to the other, the subtle lean toward him. It didn’t take much to put the pieces together that they had a close history.

Something had happened between them.

It wasn’t the words; it was the ease. The familiarity. The spark of something Oikawa hadn’t been around to witness. And god, she was pretty. The kind of pretty that didn’t need effort. Natural, gentle. Easy to fall into.

His stomach twisted.

Did Iwaizumi find him as pretty?

He hated how quickly insecurity crept in, curling cold and quiet around his ribs. He knew he had no right to feel it—not when he’d spent years perfecting indifference, not when he’d told himself over and over that he and Iwaizumi were just friends.

Still, watching her tilt her head and laugh softly at something Iwaizumi said made it almost impossible to breathe right.

“Ah, right,” Iwaizumi said suddenly, glancing back as if remembering his manners. “Jessica, this is Tooru. You remember I told you my best friend was coming to visit?”

Jessica turned to him at last, eyes widening in recognition. “Oh my god, you’re Tooru?” she said, voice bright and warm. “Hajime’s talked so much about you.”

Something in Oikawa’s chest stuttered at the sound of his name from her mouth—Hajime’s talked so much about you.

He smiled, practiced but genuine enough. “Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” she teased, and they both laughed lightly. It was disarming, how nice she seemed to be. No sharpness, no cattiness. Just open friendliness that somehow made it worse.

Still, she didn’t linger. Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she frowned. “I’ve gotta run—my friends are waiting. But it was really nice meeting you, Tooru. And, Hajime, I’ll see you at the party, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said easily, and she waved before turning away, her perfume—something faint and floral—brushing past as she disappeared into the evening crowd.

The silence she left behind was light, casual, but Oikawa felt it heavier than he wanted to admit.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, forcing a small smile. “She’s cute,” he said, keeping his tone light. Too light.

“She’s a friend from one of my electives,” Iwaizumi replied. “We worked on a project together last semester.”

“Ah,” Oikawa hummed, the sound carefully neutral.

They started walking again, and Oikawa found his gaze slipping toward the ground, watching their shadows stretch long across the pavement. He told himself it didn’t matter, that it was stupid to care, that he had no reason to feel the strange, tight pull in his chest.

It sat there, sharp and quiet, just beneath his ribs—jealousy dressed up as curiosity, insecurity hiding behind a smile.

“Yeah,” if Iwaizumi felt awkward, he didn’t mention it. He cleared his throat before speaking again, “it’s nice to catch up with a friend again.”

Oikawa forced a small hum of acknowledgment, feigning casual interest as they continued down the sunlit street. The word friend lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit— soft, harmless, grounding. It curled around the anxious edge in his chest and pressed it flat, and he felt ridiculous for the quiet wash of relief that followed. Friends. Just friends.

He could breathe again.

“Right,” he said after a beat, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “must be nice having a friend who can actually keep up with your intense academic energy.”

Iwaizumi huffed out a laugh, the sound short but genuine. “Intense? You’re one to talk. You’d probably schedule a workout right after your regular training to avoid resting.”

Oikawa gasped, mock-offended. “Excuse me! It’s called being dedicated, thank you very much. A top athlete like me needs to be better at everything.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi muttered, rolling his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

The tension that had momentarily crept between them loosened, slipping away as they fell into their usual rhythm—half teasing, half comfortable silence.

“So,” Oikawa said after a pause, brushing his hair back as he glanced at a passing window display filled with pumpkins and fake cobwebs, “about Halloween…”

Iwaizumi gave him a sideways look. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what to wear.”

“Of course I do,” Oikawa replied instantly, pretending to look scandalized.

“Yeah? Well that’s new,” Iwaizumi snorted. He remembers that one time they were attending a last minute party Matsukawa threw during their last year and how it took Oikawa several days to decide what to wear, which was stupid because he ended up using one of Hanamaki’s old costumes. “I hope it’s not a vampire again, you know? Too common.”

“I didn’t have more options!” Oikawa argued, gesturing wildly. “Halloween is about expression, Iwa-chan. You can’t just throw on a black hoodie and say you’re a murderer.”

“It’s efficient,” Iwaizumi said flatly, which made Oikawa groan.

“We’re fixing that this year. I’m not walking next to you if you look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“I thought this was about getting you a costume,” Iwaizumi pointed out, smirking.

Oikawa blinked. “…Right. That, too.”

“Of course,” Iwaizumi said dryly, but there was an amused softness to his tone now. “Fine, let’s find something before you start complaining about ‘aesthetic cohesion’ again. And, by the way, I can assure you my costume this year is good enough.”

And that brings Oikawa back to where he started, at Iwa’s big Halloween party.

The frat house was buzzing with energy, the music spilling from the main room in thumping waves. Oikawa had slipped away upstairs to a small spare room, the one Iwaizumi’s friends had cleared for him to get dressed when they arrived. 

The room wasn’t very big, but the mess was impossible to ignore, clutter spilling into every corner as if it had a life of its own. In the center stood a medium-sized bed, completely covered with what to Oikawa seemed like an endless assortment of costumes, crumpled clothing, and plastic bags stuffed with wigs in every color imaginable—blonde, jet black, vibrant pink, even a shocking shade of green. Ribbons, masks, and a few stray pairs of gloves were strewn across the floor, brushing against the legs of the bed and the small dresser tucked into the corner. A full-length mirror leaned at an angle nearby, streaked with fingerprints and smudges, reflecting the chaotic jumble in a distorted, kaleidoscope-like way. Beside it, a desk bore the evidence of some serious pre-party preparation: open palettes of makeup, brushes with bristles splayed from overuse, scattered eyeliner pencils, and a half-empty bottle of setting spray. Oikawa reminded himself not to touch anything more than necessary. The faint scent of hairspray and cosmetic products lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of the clothes that had clearly been tried on and tossed aside. Oikawa’s eyes flicked across the room, taking it all in, the organized chaos of someone who clearly took Halloween seriously, yet approached it with a kind of effortless messiness that made him oddly… charming.

Oikawa stood in front of the mirror, taking in his reflection with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. The tight baby blue bodysuit hugged every curve of his frame, the fabric smooth and almost slick against his skin, accentuating the lean lines of his arms, chest, and legs. The small, fluffy white tail perched teasingly at the base of his spine, wobbling slightly with the faintest shift of his weight. The white bunny ears, tall and impossibly perky, swayed when he tilted his head, framing his face in a way that felt absurdly playful. He raised his hands to smooth down the suit over his hips, fingers lingering over the soft, clingy fabric, and caught the subtle shimmer of the material in the harsh light of the desk lamp.

He leaned closer to the mirror, examining the way the baby blue contrasted with his skin, the way the subtle contours of his body peeked out beneath it. Every inch of him screamed exposed, and while he was not used to it, Oikawa felt strangely empowering. The suit was a costume, a joke, and a little dare all at once—and somehow, he loved it. He tested the range of movement. The bodysuit fit like a glove. He bit the corner of his lip, a blush creeping up his neck as he adjusted the ears again. Okay. Breathe. You can do this. Just… act like it’s normal. 

And then, as always, his thoughts drifted to his best friend. What would Iwaizumi think? Would he laugh, teasing him mercilessly? Oikawa could already imagine Iwaizumi teasing him about the costume—and probably sending pictures to their little group chat with Matsukawa and Hanamaki. Or would his eyes linger just a second too long, the way they always did when something—or someone—caught his attention? Oikawa’s pulse quickened at the thought, a shiver of anticipation threading through him. He swallowed, forcing a steady breath, and straightened his shoulders. Whatever Iwaizumi’s reaction, he was determined to own it.

A creak of the door made him freeze.

Before he could even turn, strong hands grabbed his waist, pressing him firmly against a warm chest. A sudden, low, “Boo!” made Oikawa jump, his heart lurching in his chest.

“I—ah! Iwa-chan?!”

Before he could even react, strong hands gripped his waist, pressing him firmly against a warm, solid chest. His breath hitched sharply. Oikawa’s eyes met Iwaizumi’s—face partially hidden by the Ghostface mask, tight black t-shirt clinging to lean, powerful muscles, black sweatpants, a silver chain glinting in the dim light. The mask hid his face, but the way he was holding him, the weight of his body, the heat radiating off him—it was unmistakably Iwaizumi. And damn it… he looked incredibly hot.

Oikawa froze, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. The baby blue of his bodysuit clashed horribly—or beautifully—with the darkness of Iwaizumi’s outfit. His bunny tail felt like it was screaming at him in the mirror, and he tugged it slightly, almost embarrassed to be seen like this.

Then the mask came off.

Iwaizumi’s eyes met his, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face—smug, relaxed, utterly confident. The playful tilt of his lips and the faint sparkle in his gaze made Oikawa’s chest tighten in a way that was entirely unfair. Iwaizumi’s gaze lingered, sweeping over every line of Oikawa’s frame—the curve of his shoulders, the lean muscles in his arms, the gentle slope of his hips, the way the fabric clung to him in all the right places. It was subtle, careful, yet deliberate, like he was cataloguing every detail just for himself. Oikawa felt heat prick at his skin, aware of the intensity behind that casual, teasing stare. Every inch of him seemed under Iwaizumi’s appreciative scrutiny, and the effect was deliciously destabilizing. Iwaizumi stepped closer. His hands hovered for a heartbeat before brushing a strand of hair from Oikawa’s face. The touch was feather-light but possessive, careful, marking him in a way that left heat crawling down Oikawa’s spine.

It was different this time.

“You look so pretty,” Iwaizumi murmured, and the words sent a jolt through Oikawa. It wasn’t just teasing anymore. There was something thick, heavy in the air between them, something that made every brush of skin feel electric.

Oikawa’s knees threatened to buckle. 

Jesus.

Oikawa’s mouth opened, then closed, as if rehearsing a dozen clever replies and throwing them all out at once. There’s a pressure in  his chest, but he doesn’t know what it’s from; maybe it’s from the thought of Iwaizumi looking like he does right in front of him or from the fact he has never said something like that before. Sure, his best friend had called him attractive before—and Oikawa had teased him for that—but there was something new about this whole thing.

The weight of his hands remained on Oikawa’s hips. He hadn’t noticed it until he became oddly aware of how good it felt to be held like that. His grip was firm but not aggressive, keeping him close and steady.

He took a deep drag of air, held it, and let it out. Then he said, with his voice as level as possible: “You think so?”

There was a silence that lasted barely a second, but to Oikawa, it felt endless.

“Yeah,” his face broke into a lazy, crooked smile. “That color suits you just fine.”

The brown haired man took a deep breath.

Fuck, he thinks.

Iwaizumi’s grin didn’t waver; if anything, it widened—infuriatingly sure of itself. Then, as if nothing had just happened, he gave Oikawa’s waist a gentle squeeze before stepping back, breaking the intensity of the moment with a casual ease that made Oikawa want to both sigh in relief and punch him in the shoulder.

“Let’s get going,” Iwaizumi said, voice smooth and warm. “I want you to meet my friends here.”

Before Oikawa could answer, Iwaizumi reached for his hand—without hesitation, without fanfare. Just a natural, confident motion, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Oikawa blinked, startled, but didn’t pull away. His hand fit against Iwaizumi’s palm easily, the warmth spreading up his arm in a way that made his heartbeat a little uneven. The noise of the party hit them fully as they stepped out of the quieter hallway and into the main living room. The air smelled of beer, sweat, that faint sweetness of cheap perfume and weed. Music thumped through the walls, lights flashing in slow, colored pulses.

Iwaizumi weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, giving nods and quick greetings here and there, always keeping Oikawa close behind him—his hand brushing Oikawa’s occasionally, as if to make sure he was still there. The brown haired man couldn’t help but notice how easily people gravitated toward Iwaizumi. A slap on the shoulder here, a grin there—Iwaizumi moved like he belonged, like the whole place ran on the easy confidence that came so naturally to him. Everyone seemed to know his name, to like him, and Oikawa found himself watching how good this looked on his friend.

When they reached the group near the bar, Oikawa immediately recognized Jessica, the same girl they met in the shopping center days ago. This time she was dressed up as Starfire.

“Hajime!” she called, her grin wide. “Finally! We were starting to think you ditched us.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” Iwaizumi said, laughing, and then nodded toward Oikawa. “I already introduced you two but this is my best friend, Tooru.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ohhh, I remember him! Hi!” she said brightly, offering a hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she looked at his costume, smile widening instantly. “Oh my god! You look so hot!”

Oikawa blinked, then smiled politely, shaking her hand. “Ah—hi. Nice… meet you too, thank you” he said, his accent thick but his tone earnest.

Next to Jessica stood two guys—one tall and lanky with messy brown hair and a half-empty cup in hand, the other shorter, broad-shouldered, with a sharp grin that reminded Oikawa a little too much of Matsukawa. Both of them looked just like Iwaizumi, but he noticed how they have different masks. Oikawa recognized Ghost from Call Of Duty, and the other one looked spooky enough.

“This is Liam,” Iwaizumi said, gesturing to the taller one, “and that’s Noah.”

“Yo!” Liam said, tipping his cup. “So this is the Tooru, huh? Hajime won’t stop talking about you, dude.”

“The one who plays volleyball, right?” Noah added, looking him up and down before smirking. “You look way too pretty to be an athlete, man.”

Oikawa’s cheeks heated instantly, and he opened his mouth—unsure if to deny, deflect, or flirt back—but Iwaizumi cut in, laughing. “Don’t mind him. He’s just jealous.”

Noah rolled his eyes but grinned, and Oikawa found himself smiling despite his nerves.

The conversation flowed mostly through Iwaizumi at first. He translated casually, slipping between English and Japanese without missing a beat. Oikawa tried to follow along, adding a few words here and there—simple phrases, short answers—but every time he stumbled, Iwaizumi would step in smoothly, filling the gaps, never making it awkward. And when Oikawa did manage a full sentence, Liam or Jessica would cheer like he’d just performed a magic trick, which made him flush but also laugh.

The drinks didn’t help much with his English, but they did loosen him up. Jessica handed him a shot, Liam insisted on another, and by the second one, Oikawa was laughing at something Noah said, even if he only caught half the words.

They danced for a bit—well, Jessica pulled him in first, and Iwaizumi followed with a grin, moving easily to the beat. Oikawa tried to keep up, laughing, feeling both ridiculous and free. Every so often, he’d feel Iwaizumi’s hand brush against his waist, steadying him when the crowd pressed too close.

Later, when the group migrated toward the living room couches, Oikawa realized too late that every available spot was already taken. He glanced around, scanning for a free seat.

“Oh,” he said, half-laughing. “There’s no more space.”

Iwaizumi didn’t even hesitate. “No problem,” he said in Japanese, sitting back against the couch and patting his thigh with one hand. “You can sit on my lap.”

Oikawa froze.

Iwaizumi’s friends didn’t need to understand the language to know what was happening. Jessica giggled into her drink. Liam whistled low. “Smooth, man.”

Iwaizumi only smirked. “What? He looks tired.”

Oikawa made a mental note to ask him what they were saying.

His mouth opened, then closed. He wanted to protest—to roll his eyes, make a sarcastic comment, something—but the warmth in Iwaizumi’s eyes made it impossible. So, with a small huff, he perched carefully on Iwaizumi’s lap, trying to ignore how solid and warm he felt beneath him.

Iwaizumi’s arm came to rest casually around his waist, fingers settling against the fabric of his bodysuit like they belonged there. His touch wasn’t heavy, but it lingered, steady and warm through the thin material. His thumb began to move in slow, absent-minded circles against Oikawa’s hip—small, idle motions that should have meant nothing, but sent a shiver creeping up his spine all the same. It wasn’t possessive. Not really. It was casual, the kind of touch that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But to Oikawa, every brush of skin felt deliberate, like Iwaizumi was wordlessly claiming a space he’d always had the right to.

The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Oikawa tried to focus on the conversation, the people laughing around them, but the steady rhythm of that thumb tracing against his side kept dragging him back—to the warmth, the contact, the solid weight of Iwaizumi’s presence beside him. He didn’t know if Iwaizumi realized what he was doing, or if he was doing it because he did. All Oikawa knew was that every small circle burned a little deeper, a little slower, and he was dangerously close to leaning back into it.

When he finally dared to glance up, Iwaizumi was already looking at him.

“See?” Iwaizumi murmured near his ear, his breath ghosting against Oikawa’s neck. “Perfect fit.”

His heart stuttered. He couldn’t decide whether to shove him or kiss him. Maybe both.

He swallowed hard. For a second, he forgot how to breathe. His reply caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Right back at you,” he managed, quieter than he intended.

The words came out rough, uncertain—but real. He could feel the weight of Iwaizumi beneath him, solid and grounding, every inch of space between them humming with tension. It was too much and not enough all at once.

Iwaizumi’s grin widened slightly, the kind that said he’d heard every unspoken thing Oikawa didn’t mean to say, making him want to avert his gaze but he didn’t do it. His thumb drew another slow arc against his side, and Oikawa’s pulse answered in kind, a quick rhythm just under his skin. The laughter around them blurred into the background, the music pulsing somewhere far away. It felt like the world had shrunk down to the small space between them—their shared warmth, the quiet awareness that neither wanted to move first. 

Iwaizumi leaned in just a little, his voice lower now, like he was speaking only for him. “You holding up okay?” he asked. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

Oikawa blinked, caught off guard. “Just… taking it all in,” he said. His voice came out softer than he expected. “Your friends are nice.”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “They like you, too. You heard Liam, he thinks you’re pretty.”

Oikawa huffed out a laugh, a faint blush warming his face. “Does he really?”

“Yeah, he does,” Iwaizumi murmured, almost proud of it. “He wasn’t wrong.”

His voice had dropped lower, rougher at the edges, and as he spoke, Iwaizumi leaned back a little—settling deeper into the couch, casual, like he wasn’t aware of the effect it had. The shift made Oikawa move with him, their balance readjusting together. He felt it instantly—the quiet press of Iwaizumi’s body beneath him, solid through the thin fabric of his costume.

Holy fuck.

Iwaizumi’s head tilted back slightly, exposing the line of his throat, the curve of his jaw catching the light. He gave a lazy exhale, like he was perfectly at ease, but the motion carried a quiet kind of intent. His hand, still resting at Oikawa’s waist, tightened for just a second before relaxing again, as though anchoring him there without meaning to.

Oikawa swallowed hard, his breath catching on the way out. It was nothing dramatic—just a small shift, a brush of movement—but it felt like too much and not enough all at once. Every inch of him buzzed with awareness; of how easy it was for Iwaizumi to move him without even trying, of how natural it felt to be that close.

That made Oikawa’s heart skip, his throat tightening around words that wouldn’t come. He looked away, pretending to watch the crowd, but every second he spent sitting there made him more aware of how close they were—of the warmth pressed against him, of how easy it felt to stay there. How hot everything felt.

“So,” Oikawa said after a pause, his tone soft, almost inaudible, “you think I’m pretty?”

For a heartbeat, Iwaizumi stilled. The noise of the party seemed to fall away again, replaced by the steady sound of Oikawa’s breathing right above him. His eyes flicked up, studying Oikawa’s face like he was making sure he’d heard right. Then, just as quickly, that flicker of surprise smoothed into something familiar—calm, confident, almost teasing.

His hand moved, almost lazily, his thumb finding its way back to Oikawa’s thigh. The motion was slow, deliberate, and his palm spread wider until it rested easily along him, fingers brushing faintly near the seams of his costume as if mapping out the space that was his to keep steady.

“Why do you ask?” he said, his voice lower now, threaded with warmth and something that might have been curiosity.

Oikawa’s breath hitched. He looked away, his eyes darting toward the crowd that had gathered again near the makeshift dance floor. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment, forcing a small, unsteady laugh. “Just curious.”

Iwaizumi hummed in response, a quiet sound that vibrated against Oikawa’s back. His hand didn’t move away, and Oikawa could feel the steady pulse of heat through his palm, through the thin fabric between them.

“Curious, huh?” Iwaizumi said finally, his tone laced with a kind of amused patience that made Oikawa’s heart stumble. “Guess I’ll have to keep answering, then.” The words were simple—banal, even—but the way he said them made them feel like a promise. 

There was resolve in his eyes, a determination to break him down, although Oikawa didn’t catch it. What did Iwaizumi want from him? What was his end goal in provoking him over and over until he feels like he can’t contain the heat building in his ribcage? Why did he keep stoking that fire?

One last push, and Oikawa didn’t hesitate to reply: “Do it, then.”

At first, he didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed forward, watching Iwaizumi’s friends interact as if they were completely unaware of what was happening in their corner of the couch. Unaware of the warmth of Iwaizumi’s breath as his lips neared Oikawa’s ear.

“I do think you’re pretty.” These words were in his voice, but they’re unfamiliar, new, as if said by some hot-headed thing residing within him—like he’s been waiting to say these words for too long to even register it. “So pretty that I don’t know if you’re even aware of how people look at you, how they all seem to have discovered something about themselves when you appear dressed up like this, all cute.”

Iwaizumi suddenly stopped and Oikawa finally noticed he had been staring at him, quiet and wide-eyed, and he knows it’s too late to mask how fucked he is right now. It’s too much, too overwhelming; he’s never crossed this line, no matter how many times Oikawa thought of it. The fire in his chest kept growing and growing until it ruined everything; when did he start to see his best friend like this? When did Iwaizumi start seeing him like this? It felt like it was too late to back out now, but Oikawa swears there was something in his eyes to match what he felt. There was something in the way Iwaizumi talked, the way he touched him, as if…

“What about you?” Oikawa demanded.

That caught Iwaizumi off guard and he paused. 

“What about me?” His tongue slipped out for a moment just to swipe over his lips. Oikawa’s eyes flicked to Iwaizumi’s mouth the moment he did it, slow and deliberate. His best friend caught him right away, fighting back the smile that threatened to break free.

“Did you… Did you discover something about yourself…?”

Full sincerity, full trust.

Full instant regret.

What the hell am I even doing.

However, Iwaizumi stares back at him. As intensely as Oikawa is doing.

“Why do you ask, Tooru?”

Tooru.

Oikawa froze, his pulse spiking the moment Iwaizumi used his first name. Tooru. Just like that—soft, deliberate, and intimate in a way that made the air between them feel impossibly thick. His ears burned, and heat pooled in his chest as his heart hammered against his ribs, fast and uneven. He had never called him Tooru. Sure, when they were kids, but that happened too long ago to pretend this was normal.

“Did you want any reaction?” He pushed again, and this time he’s leaning over closer to his face. Oikawa’s mouth went dry at the nearness of his; Iwaizumi is so close to him that he can feel his hot breath against his own.

Oikawa’s gaze flickered down to his mouth for less than a second. “I don’t know.”

The reply came almost instantly, “Yeah, you do know.”

His mouth merely opened and closed as he found himself at a complete loss of words yet again. Oikawa could feel Iwaizumi studying the depth in his eyes up close.

He doesn’t even know what he wants anymore, Oikawa decided. He felt that with every response, he was sinking deeper and deeper into Iwaizumi’s game—a game he didn’t fully understand, yet seemed willing to play, no matter the consequences.

Well, shit. 

Gulping, Oikawa began to stumble over his words, “I, well, I don’t—”

“What is it, baby?” Iwaizumi leaned in, his breathing heavy.

Fucking ridiculous, Oikawa thought. He’s never been called like that, let alone by Iwaizumi. There was something in the way he pronounced those words—slow, deliberate. So soft for him , for no one else. Baby. He had called him baby.

“Maybe…” He swallowed and Oikawa noticed how his eyes raked all over his face. With his voice just a murmur, and his face scrunched up slightly, “Yes.”

“‘Yes’ what, sweetheart?” He rasped out, planting a kiss under his jaw and catching him by surprise. “Use your words.”

Head spinning, cheeks burning. Iwaizumi has never seen him like this. It’s almost desperate, the way Oikawa was unconsciously leaning closer, his own hands moving down to reach Iwaizumi’s. He felt bold, but on top of that he felt needy. Oikawa just didn’t know why, but he couldn’t get enough—which was funny, because it was just starting. The light touch of Iwaizumi’s fingers now stalling on his upper thigh, his thumbs lazily rubbing where he stopped as he kissed again down his jaw, then down his neck. Just a small peck.

“I wanted a reaction from you.” He ended up trailing off. All the coaxing he had to do to get here. Because now Iwaizumi was in control.

It took him a few seconds to answer. Seconds that felt like hours four Oikawa, anxiety almost threatening to kick in but being left forgotten the second he felt it.

The space between them seemed thin all of a sudden because Oikawa swore he could feel some sort of pressure building in between his ass and Iwaizumi’s crotch. And he knew what that pressure was. Iwaizumi was so hard under his thigh; there was warmth there, wetness, so much precum at the tip of his dick that it was starting to leak through. Oikawa instinctively shifted away, but Iwiazumi moved his fingers again, higher this time until he reached out for his hips and his hands forced Oikawa to sit on him fully, making him gasp.

“Was this the reaction you were expecting?”

Oikawa wanted to say no. Actually, he needed to say no. He so desperately wanted to tell Iwaizumi he hadn’t been thinking of a moment like this since he was a teenager, that he hadn’t dreamt of his hands gripping on his waist, pinning him down the nearest surface and taking him right there, however Iwaizumi wanted. But the truth is, he did want all of this. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting, that is the truth, because whatever was happening was ten times better than anything Oikawa could ever dream of.

So he managed to nod, his own heart hammering in his chest.

“I knew it…” Iwaizumi rasped out, planting yet another kiss this time on his shoulder.

They could blame it on the alcohol, but they barely drank. It wasn’t that, no, they both knew better than that. It wasn’t any drug on their system, it was years and years of pining for each other, touches that never lingered for too long, words that were not said, feelings that were not confessed. All of that mixed in something stronger than their own fears.

Need.

Need for each other.

And that need was starting to become too real for them to ignore where they were, who they were with.

Ironically, Iwaizumi was the first to move. He leaned back a little, the shift subtle but enough to let a sliver of air slip between them. His hands still rested on Oikawa’s body, still grounding him, but giving the illusion of space.

Oikawa took the opportunity to sigh, running a hand over his face. It was too much for him. He felt awkward in a good way, if there was any—the anxiety of not knowing what was happening still digging deep inside him. One false move away from sending a lifetime of friendship down the drain. One wrong word, one wrong move, one wrong emotion could ruin it all. But wasn’t everything a bit too late to worry about this? Oikawa knows they’re halfway to fucking this all up—more than halfway, really; he’s still sitting on his best friend’s lap, his hands caressing the exposed skin of his toned, silky legs as if it was the most normal thing about it, with Iwaizumi’s crotch pressed right under his ass and his own dick twitching under the light baby blue bodysuit that wasn’t doing him any justice tonight.

Iwaizumi tilted his head toward the group in front of them, his gaze flicking over the crowd. Most of his friends were too wrapped up in their own noise—laughing, shouting over the music next to him, arguing about which song to play next—to pay them any mind. The bass from the speakers thudded through the floor and the smell of beer and smoke was still thick in the air. It was almost easy to pretend no one could see them.

Almost.

Because just then, Noah looked over. He was sitting in the single chair a few feet away, to their right. His grin was slow, suggestive, the kind that didn’t need translation. Like he knew something was going on. He said something in English that Oikawa didn’t quite catch, but the tone alone was enough to make his stomach twist. Iwaizumi barked a laugh, shaking his head as he flipped his friend off. Oikawa felt his grip tighter.

“Fuck off, man,” he said, still laughing. His hands never moved. They stayed exactly where they were, a quiet reminder that even if he’d pulled back, he hadn’t actually let go. Like hell he was gonna do it.

This time, Oikawa didn’t fall silent. He pushed.

“What did he say?”

If Iwaizumi was taken aback by the sudden words, he didn’t show it. Instead, he tilted his head to the side.

“Why? Still curious?”

Oikawa nodded, and Iwaizumi laughed.

“He says we’re really close friends,” he added, carefully.

Oikawa caught it immediately—the way Iwaizumi said friends. It wasn’t just the word, it was the way it came out, low and almost careful, like he was testing how it would sound between them. Like he wanted to see how Oikawa would react.

The word landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere in Oikawa’s chest and making his pulse skip. The warmth spreading through his face betrayed him. His lips parted like he wanted to say something clever, something that would bring the teasing back, but what came out instead was quiet, unsteady.

“Is that… what we are?”

For a moment, Iwaizumi didn’t answer. His hand flexed slightly against Oikawa’s thigh, his eyes still fixed on him, unreadable but soft in a way that made it worse. The noise of the party faded into a hum around them again, and Oikawa thought he saw something flicker there—something that didn’t look like teasing at all.

“Is that all you want to be?” 

The tension in the room had… shifted.

A new sensation, suddenly: Iwaizumi’s hands moved higher, both his arms carefully wrapping around his tiny waist covered by the silky, soft material of the bodysuit, the bunny tail pressed against Iwaizumi’s stomach.

What are we doing? Oikawa would ask, but it felt too good when his body was close to his. When Oikawa wrapped his own arms around Iwaizumi’s neck. He was now sitting sideways, still on his lap, still dangerously close.

“Answer me,” Iwaizumi demanded, breathily, getting so close—their lips almost touching. One movement forward is all it’d take, and they’d meet. “Do you feel the same way? Am I fucking this up?”

Oikawa, for the first time, heard the doubt. It’s not as loud as his confidence, but it lingered there. Enough to be perceived. He felt Iwaizumi’s arms go slack around his body. The tension had shifted into a very apparent sexual thing, something stronger than both of them combined. There’s hunger in the way they look at each other. Raw. 

“No, you’re not,” Oikawa finally says. He inhaled shakily, dropping his gaze to his best friend’s mouth. His lips looked soft, parted just slightly as if caught mid-breath, the corner of them still curved from that half-smile he wore a moment ago. Oikawa couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop imagining how they might feel against his own, how close he was to finding out. Every flicker of movement, every quiet exhale from Iwaizumi pulled something deep in his chest, something he couldn’t keep buried anymore. “I want this, Hajime.”

“Say it again” He echoed.

Oikawa’s whisper was so quiet that Iwaizumi could barely hear it, but he could feel the neediness in it when he spoke: “I want you more than anything.”

Iwaizumi looked like he would give Oikawa anything he wanted, however he wanted it.

“Even with other people in here?” he asked.

Oikawa nodded.

He knew this was risky, that he should probably be more hesitant, that he probably isn’t thinking straight anymore, but if he was being honest…

“Kiss me, please.”

Iwaizumi threw his head back at that, a deep groan left his throat. The grip on his waist was almost bruising. One of his hands went to his neck as he held Oikawa tightly.

The first time their lips met is a rush better, a high more intense, than anything they’ve experienced before, with Iwaizumi’s lips back on his every time Oikawa tried pulling away from him. He tasted Iwaizumi, finally; he felt him, his skin humming at every point where it touched him. Oikawa parted his lips, opened them, letting him in, letting Iwaizumi have him. He was moaning as soon as his tongue hit Iwaizumi’s and he was whining against it. It was slow and messy, eagerness laced into every little movement. Oikawa let Iwaizumi devour him, tasting all their feelings reciprocated on his tongue.

Iwaizumi was taking things slow, melting into Oikawa’s mouth and steadily parting his lips to push his tongue inside as the brown-haired man hummed against his lips, a little gasp into his mouth that made him dizzy as Oikawa wrapped his arms tighter around his neck and pulled him closer. His lips were plush, soft like clouds, and Oikawa melted against him like he was made for this. The hands on his waist slipped down in one swift movement, resting on his ass. 

“I’ve waited so long for this,” Iwaizumi breathed into his mouth, arms pulling him impossibly closer. One of Oikawa’s hands trailed up a little, fingertips grazing under his undercut and making him groan into his mouth. “Fuck, Tooru…”

Oikawa decided he really likes how his name sounds on Iwaizumi’s lips. 

For a moment, the world had narrowed down to that—heat, breath, and hands that didn’t know where to stop. But then the sound of laughter cut through the haze, someone yelling from across the room, a glass breaking somewhere near the kitchen. It was like surfacing too fast.

Oikawa froze, just barely, enough for Iwaizumi to feel it. His lips lingered against Oikawa’s for a heartbeat longer before he pulled back, their noses still touching, both of them breathing hard. The dim light flickered over Iwaizumi’s face—flushed, emerald eyes blown wide but clear now, focused.

Oikawa’s fingers brushed over Iwaizumi’s nape, grounding him. “We should—” he started, his voice rough, needy, still catching on the last bit of breath between them. “Not here.”

The air between them was still charged. Oikawa could taste Iwaizumi on his lips, and feel the ghost of his hands still pressed to his skin. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds—they didn’t need to. The world around them had come rushing back, the music thumping through the walls, voices overlapping, the smell of cheap alcohol and sweat heavy in the air.

Iwaizumi was the first to move. He leaned in close, his breath brushing Oikawa’s ear. “Come with me,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse in a way that made Oikawa’s knees feel weak. 

Oikawa barely nodded, but it was enough. Iwaizumi palmed his thighs and Oikawa stood up, Iwaizumi following before his hand found the brown-haired’s without hesitation. His grip was firm, a silent command to follow—and Oikawa did, without even thinking. Like a second nature. The warmth of Iwaizumi’s palm around his own was grounding, steady, but it didn’t stop the shiver that ran down his spine when their fingers laced together. 

They started toward the stairs, weaving through the crowd. Oikawa felt everyone’s presence again—the laughter, the bodies pressed close—but none of it reached him. All he could focus on was the broad line of Iwaizumi’s back in front of him, the quiet pressure of his thumb brushing against his knuckles every few steps, like a reminder not to drift too far, and the Ghostface mask that was being held by his free hand and that occasionally brushed against Oikawa’s thighs.

Before they reached the hallway, someone called out. “Yo, Haji!”

It was Noah, leaning against the wall with a drink in a hand, grinning like he already knew the answer. Oikawa noticed how Jessica was right next to him, her hand grabbing his bicep.  “Where are you two going, huh?”

Iwaizumi didn’t even slow down. “Gotta get some air,” he said over his shoulder, smooth and easy. Like he had the answer prepared.

Noah laughed, loud and unhelpful. “In a room? Yeah, sure, man. Air. Got it!”

“Eat shit,” Iwaizumi shot back, shaking his head—but he was laughing too, a quick, rough sound that didn’t match the heat in his eyes when he glanced at Oikawa.

Oikawa tried not to blush, but it was useless. Every word, every glance felt like a spark on bare skin.

They climbed the stairs—the noise of the party fading behind them, replaced by the creak of wood underfoot and the distant hum of music through the floorboards. The hallway upstairs was dim, lit only by a warm bulb at the end, doors half-closed, the faint buzz of people talking behind some of them. 

Iwaizumi stopped in front of one of the rooms, still holding Oikawa’s hand. He hesitated for a second, not out of doubt—more like a restraint. Then, without a word, he opened the door and stepped aside, eyes flicking up to meet Oikawa’s.

His breath caught.

Then, Oikawa stepped inside. 

The room was shadowy, the only light spilling in from the hallway through a crack in the door before Iwaizumi closed it behind them. It wasn’t the same room Oikawa had used earlier to change—that one had been cluttered, loud, full of people who at some point were coming and going. This was quieter, neater, with a faint smell of cologne and laundry detergent instead of alcohol and sweat. There was a twin bed pushed against the wall, a long mirror in front of the bed next to the closet, and a closed window. Someone’s jacket hung from the back of a chair; a pair of sneakers sat by the door. It felt lived in, but still—private. A world away from everything downstairs.

Oikawa stood in the middle of it, unsure what to do with his hands, his pulse still racing from everything that had just happened. The air felt too still, too heavy.

He turned, about to say something—he didn’t even know what—when Iwaizumi stepped closer.

The movement was quiet, deliberate. Iwaizumi stopped just a breath away from him, his shadow falling over Oikawa’s. His hand found his waist again, fingers curling around the fabric like they belonged there. The touch was steady, almost grounding, but the intent behind it made Oikawa’s breath catch.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi said softly.

Oikawa looked down at him. “Hey,” he echoed, voice barely a whisper.

For a moment, neither spoke. Iwaizumi’s thumb bushed a slow arc against his hip, the motion small but deliberate, tracing through the thin fabric. His eyes searched Oikawa's face, steady and unreadable, though the tension between them spoke volumes. But all Iwaizumi could find was his eyes closed.

Oikawa missed the half-smile Iwaizumi flashed.

He gave the flesh of Oikawa’s waist a soft squeeze. A light touch, just like earlier—that’s the restraint he’s always been so good at practicing with Oikawa. But even with his eyes closed, Oikawa still could feel the possessiveness creeping in. His touch coveted; his hands lingered long enough to claim one spot before traveling down to the next, as if he had to give every inch of Oikawa enough time to soak him in.

Lower and lower down, until he’s playing with the fluffy, bunny tail of his bodysuit, and Oikawa found himself sighing at that, his own hands moving to Iwaizumi’s shoulders. 

This… tension again.There was so much tension between them before Iwaizumi pulled him closer. His hand stalled above his ass, his thumb lazily rubbing the edge of the fabric as he kissed down Oikawa’s jaw, and then down his neck.

A chill rolled down his spine.

Oikawa breathed out his name.

“This okay?” Iwaizumi asked finally, voice low enough that it barely reached him.

Oikawa nodded. “Yeah,” he breathed, the word trembling a little. Then, after a pause, quieter: “More than okay.”

Iwaizumi exhaled through his nose, hard. The warmth of his breath caressing the exposed skin of Oikawa’s neck. He tilted his head to the side. “You sure?”

Oikawa swallowed, his pulse thudding against his ribs. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That earned a faint, crooked smile from Iwaizumi. He pulled Oikawa just a little closer—enough to feel the outline of his dick pressed right against his. A grunt escaped Iwaizumi’s throat. 

Oikawa was breathless.

The second kiss was deeper, turning hungry. Oikawa cradled his face, felt how Iwaizumi squeezed his ass with both hands, then made him grind against him, just once, so his weight pressed on the hard shape of his cock. It made both of them shudder. Oikawa resisted the urge to grind over it; he was already leaking—so wet and making a mess on his bodysuit, but then he heard Iwaizumi murmuring: “What about this? Is it okay?”

With hitching breaths, Oikawa mumbled an inaudible yes, it is.

“Hm?” Iwaizumi was in his ear again, “what was that? I didn’t hear what you said.”

Oikawa decided that he really, really hated Iwaizumi. Not because he truly hated him—maybe?—but because it was so unfair. So impossibly unfair. Iwaizumi made it too easy, too easy for him to burn under his touch, too easy to feel like he was already undone. Every brush of his hands, every deliberate press of his body. It was infuriating. He hated how impatient he was, how desperate he felt, how every nerve ending seemed to respond before his brain could catch up. And he hated that Iwaizumi wasn’t hiding it—not the faintest bit. There was a knowing sparkle in the way he spoke, like he was enjoying every second of this, that he was perfectly aware of how easy Oikawa was for him.

Oikawa hated how much he liked it. It was a different kind of humiliation, the way Iwaizumi saw right through him. He couldn’t help the thrill that coiled low in his stomach, the way his pulse spiked every time Iwaizumi opened his mouth. 

His chest tightened, a flush creeping across his neck. He opened his mouth to reply, but before a word could escape, Iwaizumi’s hand slid up from his hip to his waist, pressing him closer, fingers brushing lightly against the curve of his side. Another hand moved up, brushing along the line of his neck, then settling there firmly, anchoring him. The touch was borderline possessive, confident like Iwaizumi himself.

Oikawa swallowed hard, tongue catching on his lips, and felt a shiver ripple though him. Iwaizumi’s tongue flicked out briefly, ghosting over the brown-haired man’s lips, teasing, taunting. The contrast of his steady hands and that little, intentional gesture set Oikawa’s impatience alight—every nerve ending buzzing, every thought dissolving into heat and want.

“Come on, baby,” Iwaizumi murmured, voice low and thick in want, almost predatory, against his mouth, “say it again. Louder this time.”

Oikawa’s pulse raced. He tried to keep his voice steady, tried to mask how much this was getting to him—but the press of Iwaizumi’s body, the teasing brush of his lips and tongue, and the firm weight of his hands made that impossible.

He tried to respond but fuck—, Oikawa didn’t even trust his own voice in that moment, desperation dripping out of every word he managed to say: “Fuck, i-it’s okay,” Oikawa didn’t remember a time he’s ever needed it enough to beg. “I want you here,” he finally admitted.

His whisper was so quiet that Iwaizumi could barely hear it, but he could feel the neediness in it. The desperation.

“Please, Hajime,” Oikawa whined, so focused on him. 

Iwaizumi’s fingers pressed deeper. 

“Where?” he teased. He’s keeping his composure, but just barely. “I’m gonna give you what you want, just answer. Tell me where you need me”

It was at that moment that Oikawa’s patience finally broke. He had dragged things out far longer than he would have ever allowed anyone else—years of feelings buried deep in his chest, glances that lingered a few seconds too long, hands that measured the inches of skin they brushed when congratulating him for a good spike in the middle of a game. All of it had fused into a single, aching desperation that drove Oikawa to cross the final line.

Oikawa inhaled shakily, bringing a trembling hand down until he found one of Iwaizumi’s. The hand traveled north, pressing down on his flat stomach and tracing the faint lines of toned muscle. Again, Oikawa felt dizzy from the way Iwaizumi had been talking to him. 

“I want you all the way up here.”

For a moment, Iwaizumi went completely still. His breath hitched against Oikawa’s mouth, warm and uneven, and the muscles under Oikawa’s palms tightened in reflex. Then, a rough sound tore from his throat—half a groan, half a breath caught off guard. His fingers twitched, as if holding back. The sound went straight through Oikawa, heat pooling low in his stomach. He could feel Iwaizumi’s pulse hammering under his skin, the tremor in this restrained grip. And the realization hit him—he’d made Iwaizumi react like that. Him.

A small, fierce spark of pride bloomed in his chest, enough to make his lips part in a shaky smile. For once, it was Iwaizumi who’d lost his composure, who couldn’t quite hide the crack in that steady confidence. 

That was when Iwaizumi leaned in, close enough that their lips almost brushed yet another time. His voice came out lower now, steadier, a quiet dare laced between every syllable.

“Here?” Iwaizumi carefully pressed his fingers deeper.

“Hajime,” Oikawa nearly moaned as his name left his lips.

Iwaizumi smiled at him, “It’s okay, baby,” he said, “I can give you that.”

So Iwaizumi guided him—he stepped backward, his hands finding their way back to Oikawa’s waist. His grip tightened slightly, a wordless command, and Oikawa followed the pull before he even thought to resist. His feet shuffled back, one after another, until the backs of his knees brushed against the edge of the bed.

The room felt smaller now—quieter. Every breath sounded louder, every shift of fabric deafening. Iwaizumi’s palms slid up his sides, steady and sure, keeping him close as he sank down to sit on the mattress. The motion drew Oikawa with him, like gravity, like inevitability. It hit Oikawa then—how real this was. Not another night of pretending not to stare too long, not another dream he’d have to shake off in the morning. Iwaizumi was right here, solid and warm beneath his hands, every breath shared, every touch deliberate. The press of his palms, the heat of his thighs, the sound of their breathing tangled together—none of it could be mistaken for imagination.

Oikawa stopped breathing for a second. He looked down, Iwaizumi was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes half-lidded and fixed on him. One hand stayed at his hip, while the other came to rest on his thigh, a silent invitation.

Then Iwaizumi gave a light tug.

 “Come here,” he said, voice low, almost gentle.

Oikawa didn’t even think. His knees bent, and he went willingly, guided forward until he was straddling Iwaizumi’s lap again—closer this time, the warmth between them immediate, heavy, unavoidable. Iwaizumi’s hands settled where they belonged, one at his waist, one at his back, and Oikawa’s breath hitched at how easily they fit together like this.

His hands hovered for a heartbeat before brushing against Iwaizumi’s shoulders, feeling the solid warmth beneath the thin fabric of his black t-shirt. Iwaizumi didn’t wait—his lips found Oikawa’s almost instantly, pressing against him with a slow, teasing intensity. The kiss wasn’t frantic yet, but it was demanding, testing boundaries, dragging each of them deeper into the moment.

Oikawa shivered at the contact, tipping his head slightly as he let the kiss deepen. His hands traced up Iwaizumi’s neck, feeling the pulse there, the slight flex of muscles under his jaw. Iwaizumi’s hands tightened at Oikawa’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold him steady while he explored every inch of him with deliberate, teasing pressure.

The bed shifted slightly under them as Oikawa leaned closer, pressing against him, tasting, feeling, needing. Every brush of lips and teeth sent sparks through him, every small hum or sigh from Iwaizumi another thread pulling him tighter. The room, the crowd downstairs, the music—it all fell away. Only the warmth, the scent, the weight of bodies pressed together remained.

Oikawa tilted his hips forward, letting the fabric of his bodysuit brush provocatively against Iwaizumi’s thighs. Iwaizumi groaned softly into the kiss, low and guttural, one hand moving from his waist to trace the curve of Oikawa’s back, pressing him closer, claiming him. Oikawa’s pulse spiked, his chest tightening—he let himself respond fully, letting heat, need, and the lingering ache of desire take over.

They paused only for the faintest second, gasping into each other, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in synchrony. Then Iwaizumi tilted his head, lips brushing along Oikawa’s jaw, whispering against his skin, teasing, coaxing.

“Be patient,” he murmured, voice rough but smooth, intoxicating.

Oikawa’s hands tightened at the nape of Iwaizumi’s neck, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even form a protest. The words were unnecessary. Everything—the teasing, the weight, the closeness—spoke louder than any protest ever could.

“You’re killing me, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi bit the skin of his neck ever so slightly. "Fuckin' love when you call me that," He whispered, his breath warm against the brown-haired man.

Oikawa’s back arched slightly, pressing into him as his hands moved to rest against Iwaizumi’s chest. The subtle shift of hips beneath him made Iwaizumi’s breath hitch. Every inch of Iwaizumi was alive under his touch, hard and warm, and it was unfair how easy it was for him to feel so exposed, so needy. 

His lips parted, “I like it when you call me baby.”

Iwaizumi placed a soft kiss right below his ear.

“Baby?”

Oikawa’s stomach was in knots. “Yes.”

The green-eyed man nipped his earlobe, thrust against his body while he said sweetly into Oikawa’s ear, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Hajime,” Oikawa shuddered, “Yes.”

“Good boy.”

Oikawa could barely get an affirmation out before he couldn’t take the wait anymore; he knotted his hands up in Iwaizumi's hair and pulled him into a sloppy, desperate kiss—hungry in a way that made Oikawa’s knees weak. His hands instinctively fisted in the fabric of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt, clutching at him, pulling him closer, unable to resist.

Iwaizumi groaned into the kiss, and it was all teeth and tongue and heat. His hands roamed freely now, sweeping across Oikawa’s back, up to his shoulders, and finally tangling in his hair, gripping a fistful of soft strands as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. The rough tug made Oikawa gasp, his body arching against him, pressing every curve and lean muscle into Iwaizumi’s solid frame.

The desperation in Iwaizumi’s movements mirrored Oikawa’s own—each kiss more frantic than the last, each hand exploring with a possessive need that left Oikawa dizzy. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his stomach, spreading warmth in waves, and every brush of Iwaizumi’s hands sent shivers down his spine. Oikawa let out a low moan, muffled against Iwaizumi’s mouth, and the sound seemed to spur him on. The kiss became a silent conversation, messy and urgent, both of them speaking only with mouths and hands, testing boundaries, savoring the heat that had been building for years.

“I can’t get enough of you,” Oikawa murmured, mumbling despite the desperation in his own body. His chest rose and fell rapidly, heart hammering, and he realized with a mix of shame and pride that he was just as desperate as Iwaizumi was, just as unable to resist.

Iwaizumi pulled back just enough to look at him, that slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Good thing you have me just for you, huh?” he murmured, knowing—but the heat behind it made Oikawa’s stomach twist.

Before he could respond, Iwaizumi shifted his hips deliberately, pressing the hard length of himself against Oikawa. The movement was slow, almost torturous, and Oikawa gasped, instinctively grinding back without thinking, reacting to the pressure. His hands went to Iwaizumi’s shoulders, clutching him, while Iwaizumi’s strong hands roamed down to his hips, guiding him, keeping him flush against him.

“Yeah… just like that,” Iwaizumi groaned, leaning forward to nuzzle his neck. His hands squeezed his hips, then slid lower, pressing him closer. “That’s it, move for me, Tooru.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched, his forehead brushing against Iwaizumi’s. “A-Am I… doing it right?” he murmured, voice trembling slightly, eyes searching Iwaizumi’s for approval. “I… I want to be a good boy for you.”

Iwaizumi froze just a fraction, then let out a low, amused chuckle that rumbled against Oikawa’s skin. “You already are, baby,” he murmured, voice thick and warm. “Just like this… perfect.”

Oikawa’s cheeks flushed, heart hammering in his chest. He moved a little more deliberately, leaning into Iwaizumi, responding to every press and squeeze. “I… I just want you to like it,” he admitted softly, almost shyly.

“I do,” Iwaizumi replied, his hands firm on Oikawa’s hips as he tilted his head, letting a slow smile curve across his face. “God, you have no idea how much I like this…”

Oikawa’s cheeks burned, heart hammering, but he couldn’t stop. Every grind made the heat pool lower, every press against Iwaizumi more intoxicating. He felt every inch of him, the solid weight, the firmness beneath him, and it was driving him crazy.

Iwaizumi’s mouth found his again, biting gently, with the same teasing tone, and his thrusts a little harder, his cock more persistent against him, he said: “You feel so good, grinding on my dick just like that...”

Iwaizumi’s words hit him like a spark straight to his core. Oikawa’s head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering shut, a sharp, involuntary moan escaping his lips. Heat pooled low in his stomach, spreading through his thighs, pressing hard against Iwaizumi. His hands gripped even tighter, nails digging into muscle, as if anchoring himself to withstand the intensity of every word, every touch.

“F-fuck…” Oikawa gasped, breath hitching, body trembling under the weight of sensation. Every syllable Iwaizumi whispered felt like it was both claiming him and exposing him, pushing him to the edge. He could feel how desperately he was responding, how little control he had as he pressed harder against Iwaizumi, grinding instinctively. His breathing stuttered each time Iwaizumi pressed Oikawa down into him and he’s not sure if he’s ever been this horny before.

Iwaizumi’s low chuckle vibrated through him, a dangerous sound that made his pulse spike. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? You like being this desperate for me.”

Oikawa shivered violently at the words, and before he could think, a moan slipped past his lips. “Y-Yes… I… I can’t help it…” His voice was raw, uneven, tinged with embarrassment and need. He could feel every line of Iwaizumi’s body beneath him, solid and impossibly hot, every touch designed to tease and test him.

“Look at you,” Iwaizumi murmured against his ear, voice rough, teasing, yet intimate. “All red and trembling. You’re making it way too easy for me.”

“I-I’m… trying…” Oikawa stammered, teeth grazing his bottom lip, the words half-plea, half-admission. “Am I… doing it right?” His desperation, his need to please, shone in the way he leaned into Iwaizumi.

“You’re perfect,” Iwaizumi groaned, hands roaming from his waist to his hips, squeezing him through the thin fabric. 

Suddenly, Iwaizumi’s hands tightened against Oikawa’s sides, just enough to steady him, before he shifted with deliberate force. In one fluid motion, he flipped them both over. Oikawa landed on his back with a soft gasp, and for a moment, the dizzying closeness of Iwaizumi above him made his stomach flutter wildly.

Oikawa lay back, breath coming in shallow, uneven pants. His lips were parted, flushed a deep red, and his cheeks burned hotter than he’d expected. Stray strands of hair had fallen across his forehead, mussed from Iwaizumi’s relentless hands and kisses. The tight baby blue bodysuit clung to every line of his lean, toned body, outlining the sharp rise of his cock and the damp patch that betrayed just how desperate he already was. A few faint marks—proof of Iwaizumi’s earlier teeth and lips—traced across his neck, making his dick twitch every time he caught sight of them.

Oikawa’s gaze followed Iwaizumi between his legs, drinking in the sight of him. He looked almost unreal like that—poised on his knees, broad shoulders framed by the dim light bleeding in from the hallway. The soft cotton of his t-shirt clung to his chest, stretched just enough to hint at the power beneath it. A thin silver chain caught the glow with every subtle movement, drawing Oikawa’s eyes to the line of his throat, to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, fabric pulled taut, and there was a heat radiating from him that felt magnetic—commanding, impossible to ignore. Every inch of him seemed sculpted for control, the kind of quiet strength that made Oikawa’s pulse stumble. In that moment, under the heavy hush of the room, Iwaizumi didn’t just look good—he looked like temptation made solid, like the inevitable pull Oikawa had been fighting for years had finally taken shape before him. The mask—Ghostface, now carelessly discarded on the bed beside them—lay forgotten, its empty eyes staring at the ceiling.

Iwaizumi leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of Oikawa’s thighs. His touch was steady, gentle even, as if he were grounding him back in the moment. The shift in his expression was subtle—it wasn’t less hungry, but it sure as hell was more careful, like he was silently asking if Oikawa was still with him.

“Is this still okay?” Iwaizumi murmured, voice low but soft around the edges. His thumbs traced slow, calming circles against Oikawa’s skin. “We can stop if you want.”

Oikawa blinked up at him, chest still rising and falling fast. For a second, he didn’t trust his voice, so he pushed himself up onto his elbows instead, searching Iwaizumi’s face. The sight of genuine concern there made his breath catch—not because he wanted to stop, but because it was so Iwaizumi to ask.

“I’m okay,” he said finally, voice steadier than he expected. “I don’t want to stop.”

A small smile flickered at the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth, the kind that carried both relief and something deeper. He nodded once, his hands stilling but never moving away.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Just wanted to make sure.”

The air between them grew heavy again, not with hesitation this time, but with trust.

Oikawa felt something flutter in his chest—something dangerously close to butterflies. His skin buzzed under Iwaizumi’s touch, every nerve alive. He’d had hookups before, messy and hurried, full of noise and not much else. But this—this gentle checking-in, this grounding warmth—made him feel… stupidly flustered. Like his heart had just tripped over itself.

He huffed a small, breathless laugh, trying to cover the way his cheeks heated up. “You don’t have to be so nice about it, you know,” he murmured, eyes darting away for a moment. “You’re gonna make me think you actually like me or something.”

Iwaizumi’s answering grin was slow, teasing, and just a little too honest. “Yeah?” he said, voice a low rumble. “Maybe I do.”

Oikawa froze. For a moment, he was sure he’d misheard.

“What?” he breathed, eyes wide, a faint laugh bubbling up as if to diffuse the sudden tension in his chest. “You— what do you mean?”

Iwaizumi tilted his head slightly, that maddening grin still there, lazy but sincere. “What do you think I mean?”

Oikawa’s mouth opened, then closed again. His heart was hammering, the air in his lungs suddenly too warm. “...Then tell me,” he said, quieter now. “What do you like about me?”

Something flickered in Iwaizumi’s eyes—amusement, affection, and something heavier. Without answering right away, he reached out, his palms sliding down the smooth line of Oikawa’s thighs. He lifted one leg carefully, resting it over his shoulder.

The gesture should have felt bold, filthy even, but the way Iwaizumi did it—slowly, reverently—made Oikawa’s stomach twist in the best possible way.

“I like how beautiful you are,” Iwaizumi murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of Oikawa’s ankle. His voice was low, a rumble that seemed to vibrate through his skin.

Another kiss, this time to his calf. “I like how much you care about people. Even when you pretend not to.”

Oikawa’s throat tightened. His breath hitched audibly when Iwaizumi’s lips brushed higher, near his knee. Each kiss felt like it left a mark that went deeper than skin—hot, grounding, dizzying. His muscles tensed under the slow drag of Iwaizumi’s mouth, like it was meant to linger there. His fingers fumbled for something to hold on to and found the sheets instead, bunching the fabric in his fists as if that was the only thing keeping Oikawa from floating apart. The warmth of Iwaizumi’s mouth was everywhere now, spreading through him in waves, and Oikawa couldn’t tell if the shiver running down his spine came from the kisses or from how much he wanted the next one.

“I like how hard you work for everything,” he continued, glancing up with a small, knowing smile. “How you always push yourself—too much, sometimes.”

Oikawa’s fingers clenched at the sheets, his pulse fluttering at every new word, every new touch.

Then Iwaizumi leaned closer, his lips hovering just above Oikawa’s inner thigh, the heat of his breath searing against sensitive skin. His voice dropped to a husky whisper.

“And on top of that,” he murmured, “I like how your body reacts to me.”

The words ghosted against Oikawa’s skin, followed by a slow, open-mouthed kiss that made his whole body tremble.

Before Oikawa could even process the warmth pooling in his stomach, Iwaizumi shifted, his touch firm but unhurried as he guided Oikawa’s leg back down—closer, pulling him toward him again until there was barely any space left between them. The movement felt deliberate, claiming, and yet his tone stayed light, teasing.

“Was that enough of an answer for you?” Iwaizumi asked, a slow, almost teasing smile tugged at his lips.

Oikawa could only nod, heart pounding too fast, too loud. He couldn’t tell if it was from the closeness or from the way Iwaizumi was looking at him—like he could see right through every wall he’d ever built.

“Good,” Iwaizumi murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed Oikawa’s ear. 

As Iwaizumi began to markup his neck and down to his collarbones, Oikawa moaned lightly at the way he simultaneously humped his clothed cock down into him. The friction made his body both tingle and tense up at the same time.

Then, without warning, Iwaizumi’s fingers found the clip at the crotch of Oikawa’s bodysuit. The motion was fast, deliberate, and Oikawa felt a jolt of something raw coiling in his stomach. He hadn’t expected it—he had only imagined it—and the immediacy of it made him shiver. His voice hitched as he breathed out a soft, “Hah… Ah…”

Iwaizumi didn’t ask. He simply unclipped the suit, letting it fall open, and his hand immediately palmed him. Oikawa groaned, harsh and unsteady, head tilting back as his body reacted to the first solid press of Iwaizumi’s hand. The heat, the slick warmth of his own arousal, the way Iwaizumi’s thumb pressed against the tip of his cock… It was too much. His legs twitched, desperate to grind up into that hand, to feel more of it, to feel Iwaizumi fully.

And then Iwaizumi felt the different texture beneath his palm.

Lace. 

Iwaizumi’s eyes trailed lower, and Oikawa’s stomach twisted at the intensity of the gaze. There they were. The panties were delicate, baby blue, edged with the softest lace. A tiny bow sat perfectly in the center, its careful placement making the whole thing look impossibly dainty, almost like something out of a pastel dream. And yet, the outline beneath them betrayed everything. The sharp, needy curve of his cock pressed against the thin fabric, straining, impossible to hide. The contrast was maddening—how something so innocent and cute could be hiding something so desperate and hard, so entirely his. The lace clung lightly to his skin, brushing every nerve ending with teasing friction, and the bow… the stupidly cute bow… made Iwaizumi’s heart flip over on itself.

“You… wore this for me?”

Oikawa’s chest tightened. His lips curved into a soft, timid smile, the flush on his cheeks deepening, but it carried a cocky edge only Iwaizumi would see. “Yes…” he whispered, voice almost breathless, almost shy, “for you only…”

Iwaizumi’s groan vibrated through the air, rough, almost pained, his eyes darkening in a way that made Oikawa’s heart stutter. The sight of Iwaizumi’s need mirrored his own and made something coil and tighten inside him, a desperate, insistent knot. Oikawa’s body pressed up, shifting against the hand still holding him, needy, hungry. His hips tilted just slightly, offering more contact, desperate for Iwaizumi to continue.

“Iwa-chan…” he whispered, shivering, “please…”

Iwaizumi’s hand tightened slightly, just enough to assert control, and Oikawa groaned, letting the sound escape him. It wasn’t a shy, tentative moan. It was raw, desperate, and entirely unfiltered. He couldn’t stop himself from grinding, from pressing closer, from trying to feel more of Iwaizumi’s hand, to claim more of that closeness.

“Pretty little thing…” Iwaizumi murmured, voice still low. “You really want me, huh?”

Oikawa’s breath hitched, words caught somewhere between his throat and his chest. “Y-yes…” he managed, tone uneven, shaky. “…So much…”

Iwaizumi let out a slow breath, the kind that trembled faintly with effort, as if he were holding himself back. He actually wasn’t. No, far from it. He was even closer to losing it all. His hand lingered where it was for a moment longer, just enough for Oikawa to feel the warmth of his palm, the weight of his presence. “Since you’ve behaved so well…” he murmured, voice low, rough, and deliberate, “I’m gonna give you what you need.”

Fucking finally, Oikawa almost said.

Iwaizumi let himself feel more of him through the lingerie; he squeezed Oikawa’s dick, just a little, and the brown-haired man sighed in response. If Iwaizumi allowed him, maybe he would’ve grinded forward and rub their dicks together to relieve some of the growing tension. It was a win-win situation, really, but Iwaizumi was stubborn.

But, maybe, Oikawa liked it more than he would’ve liked to admit, because he feels at the edge of getting off most on being told what to do. Even more when a specific green-eyed man ordered him around.

“Can I see more of you?”

Oikawa nodded, eyes hazy, giving him the permission he didn’t even need. At this point, Iwaizumi could do whatever he wanted with him for all he cared. So Iwaizumi brought his long, calloused fingers to the little bow of the lingerie and pulled the panties down. He took his time, stretching the flexible fabric until Oikawa’s cock sprung free, exposed to Iwaizumi.

“You’re perfect…” he murmured, tossing the panties to the floor. 

His voice kept being low and quiet, barely registered. Oikawa is suddenly focused on his hands as they graze further up his thighs. He didn’t need even a second to think about it, “So pretty everywhere.”

Iwaizumi ran his hands up along his body, his touch smoother than ever as he wrapped a hand around his already twitching and leaking length. Pre-cum dribbles out the flushed pink tip of his dick, making Iwaizumi’s hand sticky and wet.

“Fuck—,” Oikawa whined, his head tossing back as his eyes flickered. “Fuck, fuck, Hajime—” the name slips out, borderline desperate.

The green-eyed man palmed back and forth, dragging the pre-cum all the way down to the base of his dick, and then back up—Oikawa could feel the blood pulsing in his veins, more of it rushing in with each stroke, getting him even stiffer. Eyelashes fluttered against his feverish face, eyes tracking Iwaizumi’s hand as he jerked his cock. 

The relief is immediate, but it’s not enough. Not even close. 

"Just focus on me..." Iwaizumi whispered, starting to stroke up and down his length. He spread Oikawa's legs slightly, coating his thumb in a thick mess of pre-cum leaking from his tip. "Fuck. All this f'me, pretty boy?" 

Oikawa sobs, breathing ragged. "All yours, Hajime!" 

Iwaizumi groaned. He ran his hand down his cock, tracing the vein that ran from base to tip, cupping his balls with his free hand just to see Oikawa shiver before he trailed back up. He roughly tugged his hand back up, teasing the sensitive skin. "Alright there, baby?" 

Oikawa thought he might die.

Actually—no, he was already dead. Probably since the moment Iwaizumi had first touched him like that. His brain had just forgotten to send the memo to the rest of his body, which was still trying to process everything. But this? It was too much for him.

Every nerve felt lit up, each breath a little too shallow, every thought melting together into one long, incoherent plea for more. He could feel the heat of Iwaizumi’s skin, the press of his hands, the slow, deliberate weight of his movements—and somehow it was both too much and not nearly enough.

His pulse was everywhere. In his throat, his wrists, his stomach, even in the tips of his fingers as they gripped at the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. Somewhere in the middle of all that, he found himself staring at Iwaizumi’s face—the furrow in his brow, the tight set of his jaw—and Oikawa had the completely unhelpful thought that he looked unfairly good like this.

God, he was doomed.

Iwaizumi was not doing much better. He was still dressed up, but the outline of his dick was more than visible under the bulge of his sweatpants. His chest rose and fell in deep, heavy waves—steady enough to show control, but threaded with the same heat that made Oikawa tremble. Each breath came rougher than the last, his composure slipping with every exhale, until the rhythm of his breathing nearly matched Oikawa’s—uneven, hungry, and pulled straight from somewhere deep in his chest. And Oikawa didn’t know it yet, but he swore on his life he saw the smallest blush on his cheeks.

Iwaizumi looked unfairly handsome.

And Oikawa? He was so fucked out: laying down on a random bed, covered in sweat—bunny ears still dangling unevenly from his tousled, soft hair, body suit unclipped up his belly, his eyes and limbs heavy. But how could he not be like that, with Iwaizumi stroking him just right? Oikawa was losing his mind over the way Iwaizumi had two fingers around his girth and a thumb pressed against the underside of his dick, then he tugged at his balls with just the right amount of pressure.

Oikawa grabbed him by his silver chain.

It was fast—so fast that Iwaizumi didn’t even have time to register it. Oikawa tugged on the chain, the cool metal biting into his fingers as he pulled Iwaizumi down to him. The movement was sudden, almost violent in its urgency, and the necklace went taut against Iwaizumi’s neck, making him stumble forward until their mouths collided.

The kiss wasn’t soft—it was hungry, messy, all tongue and teeth. Oikawa kissed him like he needed air and Iwaizumi was the only source left in the world. Their teeth clashed; Oikawa bit at his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, and Iwaizumi groaned into his mouth, the sound low and wrecked. His hand, the one still wrapped around Oikawa’s cock, tightened just slightly, dragging another broken whimper from him. Oikawa’s fingers stayed hooked around the chain, his knuckles white with how tight he held it, pulling Iwaizumi closer and closer until there wasn’t a breath of space between them. The chain pressed into the nape of Iwaizumi’s neck, catching the faint glint of light as it shifted against his flushed skin.

Iwaizumi kissed him back like he wanted to devour him, his free hand sliding up Oikawa’s side, palm dragging over hot, slick skin, thumb hooked under the edge of the half-unfastened bodysuit, tugging it down slowly—deliberately—until the fabric slipped past Oikawa’s chest and bunched at his waist. Oikawa gasped against his lips, body arching up instinctively, and Iwaizumi chased that sound, deepening the kiss until it was all heat and wetness and frantic motion. Iwaizumi’s thumb brushed over his bare chest now, tracing the sharp rise of his nipple and fall of his breathing, the slick sheen of sweat that gathered there. His touch was maddeningly gentle—an almost reverent contrast to the hunger of the kiss. Oikawa’s body arched up instinctively, pressing into Iwaizumi’s hand, chasing the warmth of his touch. Iwaizumi groaned into his mouth, deepening the kiss until it was all heat and wetness and frantic motion, his thumb still moving in slow, teasing circles over Oikawa’s chest as if to memorize the way he trembled beneath him.

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t by choice—it was because Oikawa needed to breathe. His chest heaved, lips swollen and pink, a thin strand of spit connecting them as Iwaizumi hovered just inches above him. The chain was still tangled between Oikawa’s fingers, and he gave it one last tug, softer this time, just enough to make Iwaizumi’s breath stutter.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Iwaizumi rasped, voice rough around the edges.

Oikawa smiled, dazed, pupils blown wide. “You were taking too long,” he managed, voice hoarse and shaky, “So I thought I’d help.”

Iwaizumi chuckled, low and dark, the sound rumbling against Oikawa’s chest as he leaned back in. “Maybe I can help a bit too,” he murmured, before claiming his mouth again. 

This kiss was nothing like the last one. This one was slower, deliberate, deep. Their lips parted just slightly, breaths mingling, and for a moment, it was nothing but the wet sound of it—the quiet, slick slide of lips and the soft hum that slipped from Oikawa’s throat. He tilted his head a little, angling for more, and his tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of Iwaizumi’s lower lip. It was a tease at first—a gentle lick that made Iwaizumi’s breath catch—but then Iwaizumi followed, catching Oikawa’s tongue between his lips, sucking the tip softly. The sensation sent a shiver straight down Oikawa’s spine; his fingers curled into the sheets, his body arching up instinctively when Iwaizumi squeezed the base of his cock a bit harder, as if saying don’t cum yet. Hold it back a little bit longer.

Their mouths stayed open against each other, wet and lazy, all tongue and heat. Iwaizumi’s tongue moved slowly, tracing his, chasing it as if he wanted to savor every second. When Oikawa dared to push back, deepening the kiss again, Iwaizumi met him halfway, groaning low against his mouth.

It was filthy, the way they kissed—hot breath, slick tongues, the faint scrape of teeth when one of them got too greedy. It was thorough. Like Iwaizumi was trying to taste every sound, every tremor Oikawa made.

Oikawa let out a soft, broken noise, one that got swallowed up between their mouths. His hand slid up, finding the back of Iwaizumi’s neck, fingers tangling in short, damp hair as he tugged him even closer. Iwaizumi’s breath hitched against his lips before he pulled back just a fraction, their mouths still barely touching. A thin strand of saliva stretched between them, glinting in the dim light as Oikawa tried to catch his breath. Iwaizumi’s lips were swollen, his eyes dark and glassy, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, like gravel.

Iwaizumi pulled back just enough to catch his breath, one hand still spread across Oikawa’s chest and the other giving him a few strokes before letting him go, almost making Oikawa whine at the sensation of not feeling him anymore. His gaze flicked down to where the bodysuit clung around Oikawa’s waist—rumpled, wrinkled, and utterly ruined from all the touching and fluids. 

“Let me take this off.” His voice came out rough, low, threaded with something dangerously close to awe.

Oikawa didn’t even have time to answer before Iwaizumi was already moving, sitting back on his heels, fingers finding the fabric and peeling it further down. The motion was unhurried but decisive, like he wanted to savor the sight of every inch of skin he uncovered. Oikawa lifted his hips wordlessly, letting him. The sound of the fabric sliding down his thighs filled the silence between them.

In seconds, the baby-blue bodysuit was gone—discarded somewhere on the floor with the lace panties. Oikawa shivered under the sudden chill of the air, his whole body bare except for the bunny ears still hanging loosely in his hair. Iwaizumi’s eyes drank him in, dark and reverent, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between a smirk and disbelief.

“Such a pretty bunny boy, aren’t you?” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

And God, Oikawa was flushed—his throat working around a nervous swallow as he tried to meet his gaze. How was Iwaizumi still so composed? Kneeling there in his black sweatpants and t-shirt, muscles taut under the soft cotton, dick painfully hard and forgotten.

“Not fair,” Oikawa mumbled, his voice a little whiny as he tugged lightly at the hem of Iwaizumi’s shirt. “Why am I the only one naked here?”

That earned a quiet laugh from Iwaizumi, his hand coming up to brush his thumb along Oikawa’s cheek. “You look too good for me to stop staring, that’s why.”

Oikawa’s pout deepened, though his chest fluttered at the words. “Still unfair,” he muttered again, gaze dropping to the fabric stretched tight across Iwaizumi’s chest. “You should—”

He didn’t get to finish. Iwaizumi reached back, gripping the back of his t-shirt and pulling it over his head in one quick motion. The movement made his necklace glint under the dim light as it settled back against his collarbone. Oikawa’s eyes followed the motion greedily, tracing the sweat that clung to Iwaizumi’s skin, the sharp lines of his abs, the flex of muscle in his shoulders. Then came the sweatpants. Iwaizumi hooked his thumbs under the waistband and slid them down his hips, the dark fabric catching for a second before pooling around his knees. He did the same with his briefs.

Oikawa’s breath hitched. For months, he’d watched Iwaizumi on camera, every spike, every stretch, every subtle flex that showed how much he’d improved but seeing him here, in person, made all of that feel pale in comparison. It was real. Solid. Tangible. He propped himself up on one elbow, shifting his weight slightly, and let his other hand slide over Iwaizumi’s chest, pressing against the hard, toned planes of muscle. Fingers traced the ridges of his abs, drinking in every curve and line he’d only admired from afar until now. His heart stuttered, a little frantic, as if it couldn’t quite believe this was happening. 

Iwaizumi’s hand drifted down, brushing along the base of his own cock, a ghost of pressure that made Oikawa shiver and whimper. Iwaizumi was thick. Thick and uncut, flushed a deep pink at the tip, veins tracing along the shaft, head glistening slightly with pre-cum that made Oikawa swallow hard. The length was more than he’d imagined from daydreaming about this—solid, commanding, impossible to look away from. Even now, the thought that it was real, right there in front of him, made his legs grow heavy with anticipation.

“Liking the view?” Iwaizumi asked, voice husky, though the lopsided smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Oikawa swallowed hard, eyes wide and cheeks flushed deep pink. “Yeah,” he said quietly, the word slipping out between uneven breaths. “Just a bit.” His best friend snorted.

“Do you want more?,” Iwaizumi asked. 

Oikawa throbbed at his words, nodding as if a second longer would have him pronounced dead. “Please,” he whined, trying his best to wiggle his hips forward.

Iwaizumi leaned forward, grabbing Oikawa’s chin with his right hand and tilting it up gently. “Open your mouth for me,” he murmured. Oikawa obeyed almost instantly, parting his lips at the simple command. Cute, Iwaizumi thought.

In one smooth motion, Iwaizumi’s thumb was grazing slowly over Oikawa’s bottom lip. There was greed in the fingers cradling his jaw, and in the green eyes searching for the brown ones before sliding two fingers into his mouth. The sensation was electric—Oikawa’s lips pressed tightly against them, warm and slick, and his tongue explored them tentatively at first, then with more confidence. Iwaizumi’s free hand wrapped around his own cock, giving it a slow, firm squeeze as he watched Oikawa’s mouth move.

The way Oikawa’s lips slid over his fingers, the slight gag when Iwaizumi pushed his fingers knuckles deep into his cavity, made him groan softly, the sound rough and intimate. He moved his fingers inside with intentional slowness, teasing, savoring the way Oikawa’s mouth adapted, swallowed, and occasionally choked lightly, each reaction fueling the heat between them.

He wonders how it would feel to suck his dick instead of his fingers, if Iwaizumi would choke him while his mouth opened wide for him, if he’d run a hand through his hair and pull him closer, harsh, making him gag around the thick shaft of his cock until his head floats and his vision goes blurry.

“That’s it… just like that, pretty,” He pressed his fingers a little deeper, gauging the responses, delighting in the subtle gag, the tilt of Oikawa’s head, the flutter of his lashes. Oikawa moaned around the fingers, cheeks flushing as the sensation became almost overwhelming, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull away—not that he wanted to.

The dual control, the intimacy, the sheer desperation he could feel emanating from Oikawa—it made Iwaizumi’s other hand tighten slightly around his shaft, a steadying grip, teasing and firm all at once. Every twitch, every gulp, every little shiver was feeding him, and he wasn’t done yet.

“God, you’re making such a mess, baby.” 

And he was, really. A gorgeous, wrecked mess. 

Drool slicked the corners of Oikawa’s mouth, glinting in the dim light as it trailed down his chin. His lips were swollen and pink, puffy from how hard he’d been sucking on Iwaizumi’s fingers, spit coating them in a thin, glossy sheen. His lashes fluttered, framing hazy eyes that lifted to meet Iwaizumi’s with a dazed, needy look that went straight to his gut. His cheeks were flushed a deep rose, the color spreading down his neck, and his chest heaved with shallow, shaky breaths.

Iwaizumi slowly pulled his fingers from Oikawa’s mouth, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. A thin strand of spit clung between his fingers and Oikawa’s lips before snapping. He tapped those same fingers against Oikawa’s mouth—light, teasing, almost lazy—and watched as Oikawa’s lips parted instinctively, eyes fluttering closed like he couldn’t help himself.

A smirk curved at the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth, looking amused. “Look at you,” he murmured. “You look so desperate to have your mouth filled again,” Iwaizumi said easily. “Next time I’ll feed that pretty mouth of yours with my cock.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched. 

“Would you like that, sweetheart?”

“Please…” he whispered, the word almost breaking on his tongue, the sound of his shaky breath filling the space between them. 

Iwaizumi tilted his head, feigning thought, the smirk still tugging at his mouth. He brushed a knuckle against Oikawa’s lower lip, watching the way it trembled under his touch. “‘Please’ what?” he asked softly, drawing the words out, his tone more patient than mocking—though the teasing edge was still there.

Oikawa swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling fast. “Please… fill me up,” he said finally, voice low but steady. “I want you in my mouth.”

Iwaizumi cupped Oikawa’s jaw, thumb tracing the flushed curve of his cheek. “Not yet,” he murmured, leaning close enough that their noses brushed. “You’ll wait for it. You’ll let me take my time with you.”

“But I’ve waited enough,” Oikawa insisted, the cutest pout on his lips. His hips unconsciously rocked down like that might convince Iwaizumi. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. “Please, Hajime, I—I can’t anymore.”

Iwaizumi snorted, short and mean, moving his fingers until he was holding Oikawa’s jaw, firm and steady. Oikawa’s mouth fell open in a silent cry.

“Yeah?” he murmured, thumb brushing across his chin. “You need my cock down your throat? Is that so?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Oikawa was babbling now, breathless, desperation dripping out of every word. He didn’t care anymore, he didn’t care about looking pathetic in front of Iwaizumi anymore.

“What else, baby?” he leans forward, close enough to brush his lips across the flushed skin of Oikawa’s neck. “Do you want me to finger you? Hm?”

Oikawa felt like he was two words away from passing out.

There’s a whimper coming out of him. “Oh, fuck—”

“I know,” Iwaizumi caressed the length of his neck with the tip of his nose, stopping at his ear. “Maybe you just want me to turn you around and eat you out until you’re begging me to stop?”

And that threw him off. There was this warmth again. Humiliating, filthy, premature. Oikawa was trying hard—so hard to hold back, his voice breaking when he suddenly gasped. Fuck. Fuck, no, no, no, no. And then Oikawa is cumming, eyes locked on his crotch as he hissed through his teeth, watching his cum spurt over his thighs. 

One last rope shot up to coat his tip, leaking down to his balls. It was beyond embarrassing, a feeling Oikawa couldn’t bear.

“Did you just—?”

Panting heavier than he remembers, Oikawa’s eyes fluttered before they landed on Iwaizumi’s. 

He had that… Fucking smug look on his face.

“Don’t even—”

“Is that all it takes to make you cum?” He suddenly teased Oikawa. His own eyes dropped down to the sight of his twitching, almost softening dick, cum dripping out of his balls and thighs to the mattress. 

“Stop teasing me.”

“Oh?” Iwaizumi let that lopsided smile appear on his face one more time. “Why? You’ll cum again?”

Oikawa’s eyelids trembled as he forced them open, vision blurred and unfocused. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, lashes glistening, cheeks burning a deep, raw red. He struggled to keep his gaze steady, everything around him hazy and overwhelming.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees, easily. “An asshole that just made you cum with words.”

A chill rolled down Oikawa’s spine.

“You know what that makes you, baby?”

There’s a pause after that. Iwaizumi let him think, maybe, at the same time he left some kisses on his skin. The contrast was insane, how mean Iwaizumi was to the soft pecks and bites he was leaving on Oikawa’s skin.

“W—What…?” Oikawa gasped as he licked up his throat—tongue hot and lazy. The sensation left goosebumps on his neck, or maybe it was the recent orgasm still lingering.

Then, he felt Iwaizumi smiling against him.

“A needy, desperate slut.”

It was a heat that intensified when he heard the words. His cock gave a pathetic little twitch.

“Hajime—”

“Turn around,” he ordered and patted Oikawa’s thigh twice. “C’mon.”

Oikawa froze for just a heartbeat when Iwaizumi’s words landed, a delicious shiver running down his spine. Heat pooled low in his stomach, his skin slick and sticky with sweat and cum, clinging to the sheets beneath him. He bit his lip, pulse hammering, a mix of nerves and pure anticipation thrumming through him. For a fleeting second, his mind wandered—he could ruin someone’s bed like this, leave it soaked and marked with his own seed—but the thought vanished as soon as he heard Iwaizumi humming.

Carefully, almost reverently, he shifted his weight, knees sliding across the soft mattress as he turned around. His hands pressed lightly into the sheets, leaving faint impressions in the fabric as he lowered himself fully onto his stomach, and Oikawa let out a small, shuddering breath, pressing his cheek into the mattress.

Iwaizumi wanted Oikawa as badly—maybe even more. The need had been gnawing at him from the start, a deep, relentless ache that throbbed with every breath. His cock was painfully hard, slick with pre-cum that glistened along the length, proof of how close he was to losing control. He wanted to give Oikawa everything they both had always wanted,  everything Oikawa had asked for—every touch, every bit of it—but not on Oikawa’s terms. Not when he wanted to. It would happen when Iwaizumi decided.

And in that moment, he only had one thing in mind.

Iwaizumi’s palm found Oikawa’s back, broad and warm as it settled between his shoulder blades. His fingers moved slowly, tracing down the curve of his spine.

“You don’t know how many times I thought of you like this…”

The touch was featherlight at first—soothing, almost tender—but every pass grew heavier, more possessive.

“...Naked for me…”

He dragged his hand lower, thumb brushing over the faint tremor in Oikawa’s muscles, until his palm rested on the small of his back.

“...So ready for me to take you…”

His voice was rough but quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Oikawa to hear every word. However, Oikawa knew better. A shiver ran down his body.

“Look at you…” he murmured. “Still trembling, huh?” His thumb made lazy circles against slick skin, spreading the heat of his hand. “So damn needy.”

Oikawa shivered under him, breath catching at every word.

He leaned down, the words brushing right against Oikawa’s ear now, careful to not knock his bunny ears fully off his head. “Can’t even sit still after cumming like that…” the laugh he let out was mean, humiliating him. “Can’t wait. Can’t listen.” 

The brown haired man couldn’t see him, but he knew Iwaizumi was shaking his head. 

“Always such a fucking brat.”

Oikawa didn’t understand it. How fucking turned on he was. His body betrayed him at every breath. His mouth hung open, lips parted as if he’d forgotten how to close them, a faint string of drool catching the light as it slipped down his chin. His skin was flushed everywhere, trembling under Iwaizumi’s touch and his hips gave these small, involuntary twitches against the mattress.

Like he couldn’t stop himself from seeking more. 

Every nerve of his body felt alive, hypersensitive. 

He let out a shaky noise that barely counted as a word. “I’m—I’m not a brat…”

Iwaizumi just laughed. Close enough that Oikawa could feel the heat of it ghosting over the back of his neck.

“Wanna say that again?”

Before he could answer, Oikawa felt strong hands sliding down the curve of his back and found his waist. The grip was firm—possessive—fingers digging into the soft skin just above his hips. Iwaizumi’s thumb pressed hard enough to make him gasp.

“I’m not a brat—” his lashes fluttered, his chest heaving with quick, uneven breaths as he mumbled again, softer this time. “I’m not needy.”

“Right,” he murmured, before moving his hands again, down the slope of his back, pausing just above the curve of his ass. His touch lingered there while his lips ghosted over the back of Oikawa’s neck. “So should I assume you don’t want to continue…?”

“Fuck you,” Oikawa spat, but there’s no harm on it. He was too breathless. “You’re so—”

Oikawa barely had time to breathe before Iwaizumi’s mouth found his skin—hot, open, and wet. His lips pressed to the slope of Oikawa’s back and dragged downward in slow kisses that left a slick trail in their wake. Each breath from Iwaizumi came out heavy against his skin, each kiss a little rougher, a little wetter, until Oikawa’s spine was covered in heat and saliva. 

He groaned, high and—of fucking course—desperate.

“If you’re not needy…”

He grabbed his ass—sinking his long fingers into plush flesh and gripping it, then pulling him apart to spread him open. Oikawa’s hole clenched lightly around nothing, slick and glistening, flushed from his own anticipation and the teasing friction of Iwaizumi’s fingers. It was pink, tender, and already responsive, quivering subtly as if begging for more, every small pulse betraying him.

“Then why does it look like…” he leaned down, pressing his mouth against one of his ass cheeks. He paused for a heartbeat, then let a bead of spit gather on his mouth before dragging it down to Oikawa’s already slick hole, “...You want me to fill this up with my cum?”

Oikawa’s breath caught when Iwaizumi’s thumb pressed against the entrance, smearing his spit over the rim of his ass.

His little hole clenched under his fingertips.

“Relax.”

“Hajime,” he panted, voice shaking, fingers clenching around the bedsheets. “Fuck—Please.”

That only made the green-eyed man chuckle.

“Ah…” he rubbed another circle over the rim, pressing his thumb against it. “So, now you do want it…”

“Y—yes,” he gasped. Half his face was still pressed against the mattress, bunny ears barely hanging onto his head, when he tried to look at Iwaizumi, eyes glossy. “I’m so sorry, I—I just, fuck, I want it, please…”

He sounded ruined. Pathetic. But Iwaizumi wasn’t about to be fooled. Not now, not yet.

“Keep begging.”

Oikawa actually cried. A single tear ran down his flushed cheek, arousal so thick in the air it made him almost choke on it. 

“Please, p—please,” he whispered back breathlessly. His hips were twitching, trying to move up against his thumb.

“You can do better than that, baby” Iwaizumi sounded bored, but both of them knew it wasn’t like that. Far from it. His gaze focused on his hole, starting to loosen under his fingertips. Just a little more coaxing, he thought, watching Oikawa’s mouth fall open as a soft moan spilled out.

There was a pause, then a sob. “H—Hajime, please,” another tear ran down his beautiful, flushed face. Iwaizumi felt his dick twitch in response, so painfully hard at the sight. “I lied, I lied, I just—fuck, I need you to fuck me” he cried. “I’m—I’m needy, I need your cock, anything, please.”

And, oh, wasn’t Iwaizumi pleased with it?

“Now that’s more like it,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You gonna be good for me now?”

Oikawa released a breath-like surrender, his voice shaking slightly. “Y—Yes.”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi didn’t even let him have time to reply. Just reached out for the pink rim between his buttcheeks and dragged his tongue through the slick seam of his ass with zero hesitation.

Oikawa cried out, high and embarrassing, clutching the sheets in tight fists as Iwaizumi licked into him expertly. He spat on his hole yet another time just for him to slurp it right away. The sounds he made were filthy, borderline disgusting but Oikawa would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t find them the hottest sounds ever.

He really gave Oikawa his tongue. He ran it over his asshole, flicked it over and over, and soon enough Oikawa’s moans grew louder, lewder; Iwaizumi rewarded him for it—sucked on his hole between flicks of his tongue, getting harder and harder on every pretty sound he made when he fucked the tip of his tongue inside him. 

He was trembling so much that Iwaizumi had to sink his fingers into his hips to keep him steady under him. 

“F—fuck, Hajime,” he moaned his name, loud and clear. “Thank y—you.”

That went straight to his cock.

And if he thought Oikawa begging was hot, Iwaizumi was not ready for him being grateful.

He’d been waiting for this, more than he would ever confess. And there he was, giving Oikawa more, anything that he could possibly need from him. Oikawa’s soft, desperate moans filled the room, each one punctuated with his name, asking him to give him more, thanking him for making him feel so good.

And then… a subtle, teasing shift of Iwaizumi’s tongue against him. Oikawa pressed his hands into the mattress, arching his back a little to push himself eagerly back into his tongue.

“God—fuck, fuck—” Oikawa gasped, bottom lip trembling in need.

Fuck, Iwaizumi thinks. His tongue was working deeper now, slow and sinfully thorough. His grip spread his ass wider, anchoring him in place as he devoured him—eating him out like a starved man that just got his favorite dish. Oikawa writhed, untouched dick grinding against the bed, rutting into the mattress as tears once again prickled in the corners of his eyes.

“You taste so fucking good,” Iwaizumi murmured before dragging his tongue all the way up. “Ready for a bit more?”

“Yes—!” The reply was immediate, making Iwaizumi chuckle.

Iwaizumi leaned back, brushing one last gentle kiss along Oikawa’s skin, letting him shiver under the sensation. Then, he stood and moved toward the edge of the bed, reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants.

Oikawa lay sprawled across the bed, utterly spent. His bunny ears hung loosely, barely clinging to his messy, sweat-damp hair. His body was sticky and slick, a sheen of sweat and other fluids coating his skin, legs trembling for the aftershocks of their previous intensity. Even like this—exposed, vulnerable and completely fucked out—his brown eyes followed Iwaizumi with a mix of awe and lust.

Iwaizumi pulled out the lube from the pocket of his sweatpants.

Oikawa’s eyes went wide, a slow, incredulous arch of his brow forming. 

“Why… Do you have lube?”

“Let’s say I knew I was gonna get lucky tonight.”

Oikawa gasped in disbelief. 

“You knew this was gonna happen!”

“Maybe?”

“You think I’m that easy!?”

Iwaizumi was fighting down a smile.

“I mean… For me…?”

“Oh, god,” Oikawa sighed heavily. “Don’t even continue, I don’t wanna hear.”

This time, Iwaizumi chuckled. Like, a real laugh and for some reason, that was enough to make Oikawa’s heart skip a beat.

It took Iwaizumi less than a few seconds to return to the bed, but not before pulling out the Ghostface mask he’d left nearby.

Oikawa blinked, cheeks already starting to get that pretty shade of pink all over them. “Wait—”

“You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?” Iwaizumi teased, holding the mask up between them. His grin was wide, full of delight at the flustered look on Oikawa’s face.

Oikawa’s stomach fluttered, both nervous and thrilled, a mix of anticipation and trust that made his heart race. “I—I didn’t…” he stammered, cheeks flushing, eyes wide.

Iwaizumi laughed softly, a low, teasing sound. “Good. Because I always remember,” he murmured, leaning back down onto the bed, letting his gaze roam over Oikawa’s flushed, sticky form. 

Oikawa’s voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “C—Could you… put it on now? Please?” His legs twitched, slick and trembling, while his hands fisted the sheets.

Iwaizumi’s mouth curled just slightly. Not quite a smirk, it’s too calm for that. Too pleased.

His eyes glimmered with amusement as he slowly lifted the Ghostface mask. “You really liked it, huh?” he murmured, teasing. “Alright, baby,” Iwaizumi said softly, settling the mask over his face with deliberate slowness. The dark, blank eyes of the mask made him look impossibly imposing, and Oikawa shivered at the sight. “There. Happy now?”

Oikawa’s lips parted, a small whimper escaping him. “Y-yes… more than… I can… say.”

Iwaizumi chuckled under the mask, the sound low and warm, then carefully climbed back onto the bed. “Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Oikawa’s chest heaved, but his eyes were locked on the masked face above him, trembling with equal parts anticipation and submission. “P-please… Hajime…”

“I know,” he said. “We’re gonna take it slow.”

Truth be told, his instinct was telling him to do the exact opposite and split him open. To fuck him fast and hard, and fuck him full for the first time.

“I need you to loosen up for me, baby” he said, voice almost sweet. “I need you to relax, yes?”

Iwaizumi wasted no time spreading lube over his fingers.

He spat on his ass one more time, watching it drip slowly down onto Oikawa’s ass on its way to his balls. Iwaizumi used the tip of his fingers to rub the lube and the spit into the slick mess, his asshole already clenching around nothing. Eager.

Iwaizumi pushed one finger inside steadily.

Oikawa trembled, a strangled moan escaping him as he took it. “Oh—fuck, your fingers… they’re so big, I—”

“I know, gorgeous,” Iwaizumi said simply, cooing as he pressed in deeper. “Gonna stretch you open, get you ready for me.”

Oikawa’s back arched, his own fingers digging into the mattress as his hips pressed instinctively against Iwaizumi’s hand. Heat pooled low in his stomach, his body trembling with every deliberate push of Iwaizumi’s fingers. He glanced over his shoulder at the Ghostface mask resting on Iwaizumi’s face, and a sharp rush of heat shot through him. It was absurdly, maddeningly hot—how something so simple, so eerie and controlling, could make him feel completely undone. His lips parted in a ragged gasp, and a shiver ran down his spine, making him ache even more.

 “I—fuck… Hajime,” he whimpered, voice breaking, “It’s… so… hot…”

His fingers twitched against the sheets, gripping them like a lifeline, while his chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic pants. Every slow, precise movement of Iwaizumi’s hand had him burning, desperate, and the sight of that mask—masking his face, hiding his expression—somehow made everything feel ten times more intense. He felt exposed and completely at Iwaizumi’s mercy, and the thought made him shiver again, hips twitching to chase even the slightest friction.

Iwaizumi’s fingers pressed deeper, curling deliberately inside him, and he leaned close enough that his whispered voice brushed against Oikawa’s ear.

“Can you feel that?” he murmured. “Right there… my fingers reaching your sweet spot?”

Oikawa’s chest shuddered, a strangled gasp breaking from his throat as he arched back instinctively. “Y—yes… oh, fuck… I can feel it…” he stammered, voice trembling, heat pooling low in his stomach. 

Every careful curl of Iwaizumi’s fingers sent shivers along his spine. His eyes flicked to the mask again, wide and glossy, and he let out a shaky, breathless laugh, half-dazed by how absurdly, overwhelmingly hot it all felt. Oikawa was gasping for it, digging his nails into his own forearms. 

“Yeah? Want another one, pretty?” he asks, although he already knows the answer.

Oikawa almost choked on a moan.

“Yes, yes…!” 

He was falling for it. The touches, the way Iwaizumi felt. He needed him so bad, he wanted him so hard. It was almost unbearable. 

Iwaizumi’s fingers shifted, and with a careful, deliberate motion, he added a second one. Oikawa’s back arched slightly, a sharp hiss slipping past his lips at the sudden fullness.

“Ah—shit… That’s… Oh, fuck—”

The green-eyed man’s voice was calm and soothing. “Easy, gorgeous… Just like this,” he murmured, moving slowly, letting Oikawa adjust to the new weight and stretch. His fingers flexed gently inside him, curling and pressing, testing reactions while his other hand stayed firm on Oikawa’s hip, steadying him.

“You’re so good for me,” Iwaizumi whispered, the words wrapping around Oikawa like a caress. 

He pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the curve of Oikawa’s buttcheek, right about his ass, the gesture gentle and intimate. 

“See? You’re perfect like this… So responsive…” Iwaizumi added, his third finger brushing over the sensitive rim where he was fingering. Oikawa whimpered, unable to stop the small moans escaping. “So mine.”

“Yours,” he whined, complacent, breathless, earning a grin from Iwaizumi. 

He slid a third one, slowly, letting Oikawa adjust before moving further, savoring the way his body reacted. A sharp startled whine escaped Oikawa and his hands dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening.

“Haji—Hajime… I’m… so close…” he breathed, voice thick and shaky, words tumbling out in a mix of warning and plea. Iwaizumi’s eyes darkened with a low, satisfied hum.

Iwaizumi’s fingers paused just long enough for Oikawa to catch his breath, teasing him in the cruelest way possible. His thumb lingered at the sensitive spot, just brushing over it, denying him release. He leaned close, voice low and dark, a smirk audible in every word.

“With how tight you are… I could’ve almost mistaken you for a virgin,” he murmured, pressing another gentle stroke against Oikawa’s spot, watching the heat bloom across his body.

Oikawa froze mid-breath, chest heaving, and a deep blush flared across his cheeks. “N—not a virgin,” he sputtered, trying to sound defensive but failing miserably as his body betrayed him, trembling under Iwaizumi’s touch. “I—I hooked up a lot… back in Argentina” His voice wavered, half proud, half flustered, eyes darting to Iwaizumi for any sign of disbelief.

God, it felt so fucking good. Iwaizumi was dragging his fingers in and out, hitting his prostate enough to make his toes curl.

Iwaizumi’s hand didn’t stop moving, harder now. A soft laugh rumbled from his chest, deep and teasing, as he leaned down to kiss the curve of Oikawa’s hip, whispering against his skin. “Oh really? So you’ve been naughty before, huh?”

Oikawa’s heart raced at the intimacy of the gesture, heat flooding him anew. “Y—yeah… but… I—fuck, Iwa-chan is not the only one who got laid!” he protested, body quivering at every touch, desperate for Iwaizumi to believe him while also drowning in the overwhelming pleasure.

Iwaizumi’s grin widened audibly, but he didn’t relent. “Hmm…Tell me more about them,” he murmured.

Oikawa’s chest heaved, hot and trembling under Iwaizumi’s steady, relentless touch. He licked his lips, trying to form words, trying to make some kind of impression through the haze of pleasure. Finally, he let it slip out, a bratty, teasing edge to his voice.

“They… they were better than you,” he murmured, his words almost a purr, deliberately testing, challenging. “Back in Argentina… my partners… they gave me… better dick.”

The words were half a tease, half a desperate lashing out, as if saying something so bold might provoke a reaction, get Iwaizumi to snap or flush, to show any hint of jealousy. His hips twitched instinctively, grinding slightly even as his brain screamed at him for saying it.

Iwaizumi’s hand didn’t falter for a second. He held Oikawa steady, fingers curling inside him, and his deep, low voice rumbled through the quiet room, calm but heavy with amusement. “Is that so?”

Oikawa’s pulse jumped, chest tightening. He’d expected maybe a glare, maybe a sharp retort—but Iwaizumi’s tone was unnervingly relaxed, too relaxed, and it sent a shiver down his spine. “Y—yeah,” he admitted, voice breaking slightly, “They… they knew exactly what to do… better than you… maybe…” His words tumbled out, breathy and jagged, trying to catch Iwaizumi’s reaction.

Iwaizumi’s smirk was audible in his voice, low and teasing, almost predatory. “Hmm… so you’re telling me I’m not enough?” he murmured. “I see… trying to get me riled up, huh?”

Oikawa bit his lip hard, cheeks burning hotter than ever. He hadn’t expected to be called out so directly, and yet the thrill of it—the sheer intensity of Iwaizumi’s gaze and touch—made his heart hammer in his chest. “I—maybe… I just… wanted to… make you mad,” he confessed, voice trembling, almost whimpering, “I wanted you to… show me… how much better you are…”

Iwaizumi’s deep chuckle vibrated through the mattress, low and possessive. He pressed a kiss to the curve of Oikawa’s lower back, the thumb of his free hand brushing over his hip as he sank his fingers knuckles deep in his hole, making Oikawa yelp and shiver in equal measure. “Better, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You think you could even handle someone better than me, baby? Look at you, trembling, desperate, spilling for me with just my fingers.”

Oikawa’s eyes fluttered, glazed with heat, lips parting in a soft gasp as he tried to hold himself steady. “I—I don’t know… I just wanted you to care…” he admitted, body practically melting into Iwaizumi’s touch, the pathetic attempt at making him jealous already crumbling under the weight of his own desire.

Iwaizumi thrusted his fingers in and out, slower this time. Oikawa’s every twitch and gasp. 

“Care? Baby, I don’t need to compete. You’re all mine right now,” he murmured, voice low, reverent, almost hungry, “and you’re telling me all the things you need… just like this. I’ve got you. You don’t need anyone else.”

Oikawa’s chest heaved, a shuddering groan escaping him, and his body utterly surrendered. He could barely process the words, the heat, the intensity of Iwaizumi’s gaze and touch.

“I need you,” he admitted breathlessly, voice cracking.

Iwaizumi’s chuckle softened into a coo. 

“That’s my boy,” he whispered, voice thick and possessive.

The sound Oikawa made—slutty, filthy, pure obscenity—was less a moan and more a cry, punched out of him like all the air had been replaced with pure sin. It was whorish, guttural. He bit down on his own lip but it was too much, too fast—he could feel his second orgasm build in an instant, trembling just under his skin like it might rip through him with the next stroke.

This time, Iwaizumi caught it immediately.

He slowly slipped his fingers out of him—careful, almost tender. The sudden lack of stimulation made Oikawa choke on a sob, body twitching as though trying to chase the sensation back. Iwaizumi’s hand smoothed down his hip instead, grounding him, tracing soft circles into his slick skin while the other pressed gently at his waist.

“C’mere,” he murmured, coaxing rather than commanding. His strength was firm, patient and in a few slow movements, Oikawa found himself guided upright, his trembling legs folding beneath him until his back met the solid warmth of Iwaizumi’s back.

The heat of him was overwhelming. Iwaizumi’s thighs framed his own, his chest broad and solid against Oikawa’s spine. The shift made Oikawa whine softly, a helpless sound caught somewhere between anticipation and need. And then there was the thick, pulsing weight of Iwaizumi’s cock pressed firmly against the curve of Oikawa’s ass, hot and heavy and very, very real. Every faint shift, every breath, made Oikawa feel it drag against his skin.

“You know what,” Iwaizumi tilted his head forward, the edge of the Ghostface mask grazing Oikawa’s hair as his mouth found his ear. “Who gave you good dick, huh?”

His hand moved between them and wrapped it around his own cock. The pre-cum dripping from his tip made it feel slick, it sounded wet and obscene, and Oikawa felt the heavy weight of him pressing against his lower back.

He was so damn hard.

Iwaizumi gave a slow, lazy stroke, the sound of it cruelly calculated as he spoke again, voice gravelly and thick. “If they’d given you good dick,” he murmured, close enough to Oikawa’s ear, “you wouldn’t be so desperate to have mine.”

Oikawa’s breath caught, the words cutting through him sharper than the teasing tone that carried them. His heart jumped, his entire body tensing and melting all at once. Iwaizumi’s cock dragged along the curve of his ass, smearing pre-cum across flushed skin, and Oikawa could only whimper in response, hips twitching helplessly at the contact.

“You wouldn’t be shaking like this,” Iwaizumi continued, his hand tightening around himself as he thrust lazily between them, groaning, letting Oikawa feel every deliberate movement. “Wouldn’t be clenching around nothing, begging for me like you are.” 

His free hand came up to cradle Oikawa’s jaw, thumb pressing lightly at his chin, forcing his head to tilt back until his throat was bared.

“But here you are, trembling and messy and about to lose your mind for me.”

Oikawa’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting in a shuddering breath. He could feel Iwaizumi’s cock sliding against him—thick, hot, steady—and the weight of the mask against his temple, the combination dizzying. “H—Hajime…” he whispered, voice weak, pleading, a quiet confession disguised as a moan.

Iwaizumi only chuckled, shaking his head. His free hand grabbed Oikawa’s jaw and tilted it, forcing him to look forward. His gaze caught the mirror that had been in front of them, ignored until Oikawa saw the reflection stared back—his flushed face, his messy hair, the faint shake of his shoulders, and behind him, the strong, imposing shape of Iwaizumi still half in shadow; Ghostface mask on and looking hotter than ever.

“Look at that,” Iwaizumi murmured, his voice quiet but edged with something fierce. “I want you to see us… What we do to each other.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched. He couldn’t look away. The image in the mirror felt almost unreal, too raw, too honest. Iwaizumi’s gaze met his through the reflection, steady and intense, even if Oikawa couldn’t see this. For a moment, Oikawa forgot about everything else—the previous teasing, the nerves—all he wanted now is Iwaizumi.

“You’re so beautiful like this.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes lingered on the reflection for a long moment. The words sank into Oikawa, making his pulse stutter, his throat tighten.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you are,” he murmured, and Oikawa could feel the fingertips of Iwaizumi on his skin.

He began to trace lazy paths along his arms—slow, deliberate movements that made his skin shiver under the touch. Up first, then down, soft enough to soothe, firm enough to make him tremble. Oikawa could feel the strength in every pass of his fingers, the way Iwaizumi’s presence wrapped around him completely.

When Iwaizumi’s hand reached his left arm, he guided it gently, moving it back until Oikawa’s forearm rested between them, caught between Iwaizumi’s chest and Oikawa’s back. The contact was dizzying—his heartbeat steady against Oikawa’s skin. His other hand found Oikawa’s right wrist, fingers curling around it in a quiet claim.

“You still think you can be good for me?” Iwaizumi asked, his voice still low, almost like a whisper in Oikawa's ear—it wasn’t quite a question, more like a statement he already knew the answer to.

“Yes,” Oikawa breathed out, too fast, too earnest. “Always.”

The word trembled out of him, desperate to be heard, desperate to be enough.

For a moment, Iwaizumi only watched him. His eyes softened, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips—not to mock this time, but warm, almost proud of getting Oikawa exactly where he wanted him. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmured. His hand moved, a silent reminder that he was in control. “Then show me, yeah?”

Oikawa’s breath caught—a flicker of surprise and anticipation.

“W—what?”

“Show me,” Iwaizumi repeated, then he guided their hands to Oikawa’s stomach. The brown-haired man immediately felt it. “I want you to touch yourself.”

Even if the room was dark and the lights were off, Iwaizumi knew his cheeks were flushed.

“In front of you?” Oikawa felt stupid as soon as he asked the question, but he couldn’t deny how excited he was feeling. His own fingers twitched under Iwaizumi’s hand.

“That’s right, baby,” Iwaizumi wished he wasn’t wearing that stupid mask, he would be kissing his stupid skin until he could hear those stupid sighs of him. 

“It’s embarrassing.”

Iwaizumi smiled, and it was as hazy and warm as the air enveloping the two of them.

“I’ll help you.”

And then Iwaizumi guided him again. Oikawa swore under his breath as he grazed his fingers over his hard dick. The throb was instant, much more insistent when Iwaizumi squeezed his hand, squeezed himself in the process. It was so good, so sensitive that he could feel the blood pumping through him and into his dick. His pulse was quickening under Iwaizumi’s fingertips, but he didn’t let go. Neither of them did.

“Poor thing,” he heard Iwaizumi saying, amused. “You’re so hard here.”

Oikawa could only sob, eyes threatening to close.

“Open your eyes.”

But Oikawa couldn’t. The slow, relentless drag of his palm up and down his cock got him spiraling already.

“Open your eyes, baby.” Iwaizumi demanded again.

Oikawa obeyed instantly, his eyes catching the reflection of the mirror one more time. It was a lot for him. His lips had parted a long time ago and he was letting out the smallest whines, especially when Iwaizumi’s thumb circled around the head of his cock, smearing the precum all over it.

Iwaizumi was so mean with it, constricting his grip on his dick to make the hole he was fucking his cock with tighter. Gliding his palm back and forth, dragging the precum all the way down to the base of his dick, and then back up—the blood pulsing in his veins, more of it rushing in with each stroke, getting him even stiffer. Oikawa’s eyelashes fluttered against his feverish face, eyes tracking Iwaizumi’s hand as he helped the brown-eyed to stroke his cock.

“Now do it yourself,” he whispered. “Do it how you always wished I would touch you.”

Oikawa fought back a whine, only to chew on his bottom lip with need.

“I—I never said that…” he moaned, tightening his hand around the base of his cock. His gaze was focused on the drag of his hand, the way it went up and down, up again and circling the palm around the tip where he added some pressure. 

“You didn’t need to,” Iwaizumi let out a humorless laugh, his right hand going for Oikawa’s hips as the other kept his arm held. “I know you have thought of it.”

“You don’t know shit.” 

“Oh, but I do.” Iwaizumi slowly pulled him back on his lap, his own cock brushing against Oikawa’s ass. He was fully sitting on his heels now, pulling Oikawa onto him.

They both groaned. It was like both their bodies needed this, to feel closer again, skin against skin.

“I know you’ve probably thought about this,” Iwaizumi let out a heavy breath, eyes focused on Oikawa and the movement of his hand. “Because I’ve thought about you before, too.”

The moan came instantly from Oikawa’s mouth and his hand dropped to the base of his cock, gripping it hard. It was too much. His throat was dry, his hand warmth almost burning around his pulsing erection.

“W—What have you thought of?”

Right where I wanted him to be, Iwaizumi thought to himself.

“Of this, of seeing you jerking off for me,” he started. For the first time since they changed positions, Iwaizumi let his arm go to grab both sides of his hips. He broke eye contact with his own reflection to gaze down where his cock stood hard against Oikawa’s cheeks. “Thought of bending you over…”

God, have mercy.

Oikawa spat into his palm, slicking it quickly, and then he wrapped around his length with a grip far too skilled. It was so wet. Spit mixed with his own precum.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, eyes flying open, back arching.

“Stay still,” Iwaizumi ordered.

And he tried, really, but then the rhythm started to become unbearable—fast enough to overwhelm, tight enough to make Oikawa feel dizzy. Each pass of his hand was uncontrolled, a bit too hurried. It made him pant, made him flushed to the collarbone.

Oikawa sobbed. It slipped out involuntary, as tears flooded his eyes, humiliating in its rawness. His hips bucked into nothing, cock twitching under his hand, every nerve ending screaming.

“Look at you,” Iwaizumi’s tone softened, but only the way a blade gleamed before cutting. The softness of someone who had been edging him all night. “Didn’t even fuck you. Just my hand—and you’re crying for it.”

Oikawa’s free hand flew to his balls. Both of his hands were squeezing, his breath catching in his throat, but it didn’t help at all. Everything felt too hot, like his skin was one raw nerve stretched tight over trembling muscles.

He needed Iwaizumi. Not just his touch, but him—he needed Iwaizumi inside. 

“I c-can’t—” a sob was heard. 

Oikawa looked at their reflections and came face to face with Iwaizumi. Or face to mask.

Oikawa, who looked ruined in the best way—tear tracks glistening down his cheeks, cheeks with that perfect and cute shade of pink, his bottom lip trembling and those beautiful, doe brown eyes looking at him with so much lust.

Something cracked open inside Iwaizumi at the sight of it. Some vulnerable, overwhelmed part of him folded instantly.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” Iwaizumi continued, dark and coaxing. “Let me take care of you now, yeah?”

Oikawa turned his face towards his voice—eyes wide, wet lips parted—and he begged. It wasn’t grateful. It wasn’t composed. It was raw, stripped bare of anything but need.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please—I’ll do anything, just—let me—”

The room was soaked in heat—skin against skin, breath catching in waves, every body slick and shining under the faint light that came from the moon outside the window. 

“Please, Hajime,” he shuddered, “I want it.”

Fuck. He sounded so good when he begged.

“Now if you want to be even better for me, baby, you’re gonna cum all over my dick.” 

Oikawa let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sob, breathless and completely wrecked, his body shuddering eagerly at the mere suggestion. His hips twitched instinctively under Iwaizumi’s touch, desperate for more friction, action—anything.

“Can I get a kiss first, please?”

Iwaizumi’s smile widened. “Always.”

He yanked the mask off in an instant.

The bunny ears followed after it.

There was one last, lingering look shared between them before Iwaizumi pressed his lips to his again, feeling as Oikawa sighed against him and just barely eased into this. The kiss wasn’t soft. It crashed into Oikawa, fierce and consuming, like everything Iwaizumi had been holding back was suddenly let loose. His hand came up to Oikawa’s throat, pulling him closer, fingers digging just enough to keep him there, enough to draw a moan out of him. Their lips met hard, clashing, all teeth and breath and need. 

Oikawa gasped against him, and Iwaizumi took that opening without hesitation, deepening the kiss until it was nothing but heat and want. Their noses brushed, their breaths tangled; it was messy, dizzying—like they were trying to devour every inch of air between them.

He kissed him back—hard. His hands shop up, fingers curling around Iwaizumi’s forearm, the one still firm against his throat. His touch wasn’t to push him away; it was to hold on. The pressure of Iwaizumi’s hand, the weight of him so close, made every nerve in Oikawa’s body spark a live wire.

Their mouths moved together in something that wasn’t gentle or careful — it was a clash, a release. Oikawa’s tongue met his, hungry and searching, the kiss deepening until it felt like breathing was an afterthought. His grip on Iwaizumi’s arm loosened; he knotted his hands up his hair and pulled him into a sloppier, desperate kiss. 

Iwaizumi grunted against his mouth, drinking every gasp Oikawa let out against his.

It was obscene, the sounds their mouths made every time they found each other. Wet, breathless, desperate. Every kiss broke with a gasp, only to crash back together harder, hungrier, as if neither could stand the space that opened between them for even a second. Oikawa’s breath hitched each time Iwaizumi caught his bottom lip between his teeth, each small sound spilling out into the narrow space between them like a confession. The air was thick with it — the drag of lips, the soft, slick sound of a kiss too deep, too long. It wasn’t just want anymore; it was something messier, rawer. The kind of hunger that had been caged for too long.

A groan slipped out of Iwaizumi’s mouth, got caught up in Oikawa’s as his hands dropped to his hips and pressed him down into his lap—his cock hard against his ass.

“Fuck, baby,” he sighed, rocking his hips, dragging his cock back and forth over his ass so slowly while Oikawa simply moaned his name.

“You feel so good,” Oikawa barely muttered against his mouth. He let Iwaizumi tease him with his dick, the wet head of it brushing on his needy hole.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded almost sweetly between thrusts. “Want me to stretch this pretty little ass out?”

“Yes,” Oikawa replied, fast. “Fuck me, m-make me cum.” He wasn’t embarrassed anymore. Well, maybe a little, but there was something stronger than that. 

Need.

He could touch it with his fingertips. Almost there.

“I can give it to you, Tooru, you know that?”

He shivered, body aching for more.

“You gonna give it to me?”

The question felt more like a beg without the intention to make it sound like one. But Iwaizumi took it nonetheless.

His reply was a low murmur. “Don’t you deserve it?”

Iwaizumi’s palms are rough and his actions a mix between hard and tender. Tender by the way his finger caressed the exposed skin of Oikawa’s hips, and hard, by the way said fingers pressed on it. 

It didn’t last long, though, since Iwaizumi’s right hand flew to the base of his cock.

Everything was wet when he let his shaft meet Oikawa’s skin. All the fingering, all the eating him out paid for it, with his own spit and precum glistening all over the brown-haired man’s thighs. 

Iwaizumi made it messier, slid the head of his cock all over his rim—back, then forward. His instincts told him to fuck him fast and hard, and to fuck him full. But Iwaizumi didn’t do it, not now.

Not yet.

Using the tip to rub the spit into the slick mess of pre-cum there, he said. “Keep your pretty eyes on the mirror, baby.”

Oikawa obeyed. His own hands going after the one that Iwaizumi used to hold him, pressed now at the bottom of his stomach. Call him clingy, but that didn’t stop Oikawa from interlinking their fingers together. 

Oikawa felt a pleasurable pricking at his skin while Iwaizumi rubbed the head over the slick mess of his ass, slow circles until he felt Oikawa relax a little. Having him like that, feeling his hole clenching around nothing only made him throb in anticipation.

The first push came seconds after. And, honestly, Iwaizumi didn’t know what got him first, if it was the fact that he finally got to this point, or the feeling of the lubed-up rim stretching open around his dick. So warm, so responsive for him. 

For him, only.

Oikawa’s mouth opened as soon as he felt the stretch, moaning shakily: “Oh, fuck…” He gasped sharply, his body briefly tensed before yielding, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, a choked, overwhelmed whimper escaping his parted lips. 

The stretch was visibly intense, sensation rolling through him like molten heat, each nerve ending set alight. 

“You okay, baby?”  Iwaizumi said as he gave him more—he pushed Oikawa open, sinking his cock deeper into his ass. He’s throbbing so fucking hard, leaking so much; he wanted to fuck him so badly.

His voice carried concern even if he couldn’t keep the tremor of pleasure out of it.

Oikawa could only nod, his head falling back into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. The exposed curve of his neck was carefully kissed by Iwaizumi, almost instantly.

“You’re doing so good for me, Tooru,” he murmured softly, reassuring him but holding him firmly in place. 

“More… I want more,” Oikawa almost choked on his own words. Heart-eyes as he spoke. “Fuck—Deeper. Deeper, please.”

Deeper.

His ass swallowed up the head of his dick one more time and it felt so good. Oikawa almost wanted to laugh at himself at that moment. How could he ever tease Iwaizumi about him not giving him a good dick? His best friend could’ve said he was just letting his mouth run about it, but at the end of the day, it was on his cock that Oikawa was coming undone. 

There was a gasp and immediate resistance, his ass squeezing Iwaizumi; the sudden, tight grip sent a sharp jolt of pleasure for him, and he groaned. He pressed carefully another inch, rutting in against his ass fully, stretching to fit in more and more of him. 

Catching his breath, panting, he said: “Look how wrecked you look, taking me like the desperate, little mess you are.”

And so did Oikawa. The reflection staring back at him was breathtaking—his skin flushed, hair sticking in wild strands caused by the bunny ears he was wearing earlier. His lips were red and swollen, parted as if he’d just been caught mid-gasp. Every inch of him looked undone, caught between pleasure and surrender. 

Behind him, Iwaizumi’s presence was even more overwhelming. His body was a wall of strength and heat, his green eyes sharp, locked on Oikawa’s reflection rather than Oikawa himself. It made something inside him twist, a shiver that ran all the way down his spine. The mask was forgotten somewhere on the floor—or was it on the sheets?—leaving his face bare and alive in a way that made Oikawa’s breath catch. 

His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, his lips parted with each heavy exhale. Every line of him pulsed—strong, unrelenting, impossibly focused on his one and only task: fucking him. No one else. Not his old hookups. Him. 

When Oikawa looked at their reflection again, the sight hit him like a jolt. The two of them together—his own body trembling as Iwaizumi thrusted in one more time, flushed and open for the green-eyed man, pressed so close behind him that their shapes seemed to blend. 

He was a mess, that was true.

But Iwaizumi wasn’t any better.

So he pushed deeper, going harder. So fucked-out.

“You’re taking it so well, baby.”

“More, I want more.”

Iwaizumi looked down to drop another glob of spit onto the shaft of his dick, and felt his head spin when he saw his ass stretched open around his cock.

The sight was nasty, obscene. His cock disappeared inside of him when he thrusted in, slow at first, then hard; his balls hitting the back of Oikawa’s ass in the movement. And then he pushed deeper, hips rolling slow but insistent. 

Oikawa sobbed beneath him. His back arched off Iwaizumi’s chest as his body gave in. As the last of the resistance gave way and Iwaizumi slid home, thick and hard and so deep Oikawa saw stars.

He could feel everything—the stretch, the pressure, the way Iwaizumi’s cock pulsed inside him like it belonged there. Like it’s the only place it was meant to be.

Oikawa’s voice broke on a moan, high and helpless.

“God, you feel—fuck, Hajime, you feel so good—” 

And Iwaizumi just groaned again, burying his face in Oikawa’s neck. His lips trailed slowly along the skin, leaving faint marks behind—a quiet claim more than anything else. 

His hips rocked deep and slow, like he’s worshipping him from the inside out, like he was trying to make it last. Because maybe he was. Because maybe he wanted this as badly. Because maybe he’d dreamt about this moment, the moment he got to have Oikawa in his arms, squirming for him, kissing him, fucking him.

His instincts told him to give Oikawa all at once—to shove it in, bury himself deep and spill his cum all the way inside him. But instead, he gave it to him slowly, eased in while he’s oh-so-sweetly kissing the curve of his neck, that spot that connected it with his shoulder. 

“Taking my dick so well, that’s right—fuck, good boy,” he groans. Iwaizumi was so sensitive, he knew he wasn't gonna last long with how tight Oikawa was squeezing him.

“So deep, Haji,” he whimpered, with pleasure thick in his voice. “You’re so—so deep in me.”

Iwaizumi grabbed his hips harder, pulling him down onto him, spreading his legs wider. 

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi looked at them in the mirror. He watched as tears pricked at the corner of Oikwa’s eyes as he grinded his hips up in a slow, brutal thrust that knocked a broken gasp out of Oikawa. “Do you like it, baby? Like the way I make you so full?”

Oikawa moaned, long and loud, his head tipping back against Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes!” he gasped, fingernails clawing against his own thighs. “Fuck—Harder.”

“As you wish.” He pulled out almost all the way out, the stretch of it making Oikawa whine, his body clenching in protest. Then, Iwaizumi thrusted back in hard.

Iwaizumi started fucking him in earnest. Hard. Fast. Deep. The slap of their bodies echoes through the room, filthy and wet, each thrust hitting with punishing precision. His balls pressed up against the rim of his hole with each thrust, just in time to watch as Oikawa’s eyes rolled back and his eyebrows knit. 

“Oh my god, it feels so fucking good.”

For Iwaizumi, too. He was trying to hold back, his voice breaking when he gasped: “F-fuck.”

Oikawa caught a glimpse of his face—eyes half-lidded, jaw tight, a flush creeping high on his cheeks. Iwaizumi looked just as wrecked. Lost in it. Like he was chasing Oikawa down through every thrust and refusing to let go. However, Iwaizumi knew he was right on the edge and he wanted to fuck Oikawa through it. 

So he pulled out almost all the way and then buried it deep and hard with his teeth gritted. Oikawa could barely think. Barely breathe. Every time Iwaizumi slammed into him, he felt that pleasure hitting him, his body rocked by the force of it, his own cock leaking against his belly, untouched and throbbing. 

Iwaizumi’s movements were hurried now.

“F-fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he moaned against Oikawa’s ear, making him whine in response. He was getting sloppy and rushed, hands gripping tight on his hips.

“Harder,” was all Oikawa said, hoarse. “Harder, I—I can take it.”

Ah, fuck.

Iwaizumi snarled and grabbed him harder, tilting Oikawa’s pelvis up and drove into him, relentlessly. His thrusts went deeper, sharper, slamming into that spot that made Oikawa cry out, his voice breaking on every moan.

“Shit, Tooru, you’re so stretched for me.”

“Just for you!”

He pulled out, slammed back in, and said, with his balls pressed up against the mess they were making. “Just for me? This little hole is mine to fuck?”

Oikawa whined. “Only yours. I’m yours, Hajime.”

That almost made him cum. Iwaizumi hissed under his breath. 

The pace was brutal, desperate. Their breaths came in sharp, ragged pants, the muscles in Iwaizumi’s back flexing, sweat slicking their skins.

Oikawa risked another look, this time facing the real Iwaizumi. His brows were drawn tight, teeth bared in a snarl. His expression twisted; full of need and lust, like he was trying not to cum too soon. Just like Oikawa.

Iwaizumi did a sound Oikawa had never heard before, low and raw, a moan that made Oikawa shiver. Their eyes are shut, brows twitching and their foreheads now pressed together. 

“Fuck, Tooru—” Iwaizumi gasped, voice deep and reverent. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Fill me up,” the answer came instantly, more like a request. “C’mon, Hajime, give it to me.”

They both felt it at the same time. The intense feeling building up.

“Cum with me,” Iwaizumi groaned, burying himself to the hilt.

And Oikawa did. His orgasm hit like a train; a flash of white-hot tension snapping inside him, leaving him gasping as Iwaizumi filled him up. His body locked up, muscles seizing around Iwaizumi’s cock, his own dick jerking, painting his stomach white with long ropes of cum spurting out of it as Iwaizumi pushed, grinded, dragged his cock in and out, giving him every load of cum he asked for.

“Take it all, baby, I know you can.”

Iwaizumi cursed low, nearly incoherent, and drove deep one last time as he spilled inside him; thick and hot. Oikawa felt every one of them, every twitch, every drop.

They collapsed together, breath ragged and bodies shaking. 

The heat of their closeness lingered, and even as their racing hearts slowly calmed, the room felt charged with the quiet aftermath of everything they had shared. Oikawa’s soft hair damped with sweat sticking slightly to his forehead, while Iwaizumi’s arms were still wrapped around him, softer now and warm, a reassuring presence that made the world outside disappear.

“Hey…” Iwaizumi whispered gently, his voice husky but soft, almost afraid to break the fragile quiet. He kissed Oikawa’s shoulder. “Can I… pull out?”

Oikawa’s lips trembled and he gave a small, tired nod. He did not trust his voice, too raw and caught somewhere. God, his throat was so dry. 

Iwaizumi moved slowly, careful, easing himself back. The pullout was gentle, a hard contrast with the way he was thrusting inside a few moments ago. The thought itself made Oikawa blush.

None of them said a word, but Iwaizumi took care of Oikawa. He grabbed one shirt from the closet that was in the room and helped him to clean himself. Oikawa almost made a comment about ruining someone’s clothes, but he was so smitten over the fact his best friend was cleaning him up after rearranging his insides.

Iwaizumi moved slowly, carefully, and once he was fully alongside Oikawa, he shifted so that they could both lie down. The bed creaked softly beneath them, a gentle reminder of their shared warmth and closeness. Iwaizumi drew Oikawa into his chest, wrapping an arm firmly around him while his other hand rested lightly against Oikawa’s hip.

“You okay?” Iwaizumi asked, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Oikawa’s head. “Do you… feel okay? Was I too hard?”

Oikawa nuzzled into the curve of Iwaizumi’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent and letting the tension of his shoulders melt. “Mmm… yeah,” he murmured, voice still hoarse. “I’ve been better.”

Iwaizumi snorted against his hair, a warm, gentle smile that reached his eyes. “Don’t be an asshole now.” He joked, adding a bit softer. “I just want to make sure you’re really okay, you know? Nothing hurt you, nothing… felt wrong?”

Oikawa looked up at him. He felt like there was something more under that question, like he was not just talking about the sex.

He offered a smiled.

“It was perfect, Iwa-chan,” he whispered, tracing lazy figures along Iwaizumi’s chest. “I wouldn’t mind… repeating it.”

That drew a laugh out of Iwaizumi, who already had that signature grin on his lips.

“Fucked you so good you’re already thinking of a second round?”

“Oh, fuck you!”