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Practice that day is uneventful, full of sweat and perfect spikes and Hanamaki’s side comments about whatever the hell is going on between the first years. Iwaizumi’s looking forward to going home afterwards, maybe getting a jump start on the stupid English assignment they’d all been unexpectedly assailed with, and he says as much to Oikawa as they’re getting dressed in the club room.
Oikawa snorts. “You’re such a nerd, Iwa-chan.”
“Like you can talk,” Iwaizumi retorts, muffled through the shirt he’s tugging over his head. “Maybe if you spent as much time on homework as you did your hair…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He means you’re a dumbass,” Matsukawa adds from across the room, laughing. “Captain.”
Everyone else dissolves into snickers, and immediately turns to their lockers to avoid Oikawa’s scathing glare.
“Like any of you guys can talk, either!” Oikawa protests, struggling into his pants. “I know for a fact Makki was complaining last week about failing a group project. How is that even possible?”
“My partner was Mattsun, that’s how,” says Hanamaki, and ducks when Matsukawa throws a balled-up practice shirt at him.
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and grabs his bag before the locker room can dissolve into all-out war. “I’ll wait outside, Shittykawa.”
“You know, Iwa-chan, you should be nicer to me. At least Mattsun calls me captain.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely because I respect you,” Matsukawa smirks, “and not because I don’t want to run laps, or anything.”
“He’s not even that nice to me,” Hanamaki complains.
“Yahaba, I swear to God, if you don’t give me my fucking pants back - “
“I’ll wait outside for you,” Iwaizumi says loudly, overriding everyone else - and then he looks Oikawa dead in the eyes, smirks, and adds, “Captain.”
And everyone else, caught up in getting dressed or checking their phones or, in Kyoutani’s case, chasing Yahaba for their pants - probably misses the expression that crosses Oikawa’s face.
An expression that Iwaizumi, despite probably being able to major in some kind of study - of whatever the fuck happens to Oikawa’s face when he’s trying to guilt trip Iwaizumi into buying extra snacks, or making fun of him, or guilt tripping him - doesn’t recognize.
He frowns.
Oikawa turns bright red and nearly smacks his head into the door as he leaves.
-
Iwaizumi and Oikawa don’t have sex often, mostly because it’s kind of a hassle to organize, all things considered. Neither of them have siblings, thank God, but there are still parents to deal, especially important because Oikawa is not just loud as fuck when he’s being normal Oikawa - he’s loud as fuck.
So they don’t have sex often, which is fine.
But Iwaizumi’s parents are away for the weekend, some big business conference in the city - which he’s pretty sure doubles as an excuse so they can rent out a hotel room and do exactly what Iwaizumi and Oikawa are planning for themselves.
They warned him, of course, before they left. “Tooru can come over,” his mom said, rolling her clothes and arranging them neatly inside her suitcase, “but that’s it. I asked the neighbors to watch and make sure.”
He tried not to smile. He really did. But there was something so ironic about his mom worrying what he might do with a girl - even going so far as to ask the neighbors - when, in reality, it’s only ever been him and Oikawa.
Oikawa would kill him if Iwaizumi ever called him something as embarrassing as boyfriend or partner, but there’s no good way to describe what they do. All the empty houses and hurried texts, nights spent twisted underneath familiar bedsheets, hot, panting breath traded between gasping lips. Iwaizumi doesn’t know what his mom would do if she ever figured it out - that there is no girl, will never be a girl - but he doesn’t think she’d be mad.
She might finally understand why he insists on washing his own sheets, though.
So Iwaizumi’s parents are out of town, and it’s late on a Saturday night, and he’s got Oikawa on the bed underneath him, red-faced and open-mouthed and hair mussed, and still managing to look like a fucking porn star, or something. And he’s never been one to pass up an opportunity like this, so he leans down and kisses Oikawa hard, licking into his mouth, their tongues sliding messily together. Oikawa moans, pushing back against him and rutting half-consciously against Iwaizumi’s hip.
Iwaizumi pulls back just enough to smirk at him. “Good idea?”
“Fuck off,” Oikawa retorts, but he sounds so breathless it’s hard to take him seriously. He grinds up again, and this time, Iwaizumi rolls his hips down simultaneously, and the resulting friction is enough to punch the air out of both of their lungs.
Without anyone home, Oikawa can moan as loud as he wants - which is good, because he does, probably unthinkingly, and the sound goes straight between Iwaizumi’s legs. “Iwa-chan,” Oikawa moans, because he won’t call him Hajime, fuck, please, Hajime, until they’re both close. “Do that again.”
And how is he supposed to refuse?
Iwaizumi slides his hands into Oikawa’s hair and pulls, tipping Oikawa’s head back against the pillows. He looks so fucking good like this, lips red and swollen, squirming desperately underneath Iwaizumi - God, he looks good, and when his back arches off the bed, the hardness tenting his sweatpants grinds straight into Iwaizumi’s hip.
Iwaizumi moans, unable to help it, and Oikawa’s mouth curls into a hot little smirk. He shifts a little, distending the sheets underneath them.
“Iwa-chan,” he whispers again, and heat crashes through Iwaizumi’s body like a fucking hurricane.
He can’t really do anything, though, beyond rutting against Oikawa and drinking up all the curses from that pretty, bitten-red mouth. The heat settles in the pit of his stomach, tightening until he knows he’s close - knows they’re both close.
“Hajime,” Oikawa moans, rubbing against him again and again. “Fuck, Hajime - ”
Shit, he’s so close, watching Oikawa bring himself up to the edge just from the friction of his erection grinding against Iwaizumi’s. And it’s right when they’re both teetering on it that Iwaizumi suddenly remembers the face Oikawa made almost two weeks ago in the club room after practice, and - fuck it - he screws his eyes shut and presses himself so hard against Oikawa he wonders, stupidly, if it might leave a bruise, before putting his mouth right next to Oikawa’s ear.
“Captain,” Iwaizumi whispers.
Oikawa shudders so violently it makes sparks fly behind Iwaizumi’s eyelids, and just like that, his throat contracts in a soundless moan, and he comes.
-
Later, after they’ve both gone a couple more rounds before showering and cleaning up, and are sitting around the kitchen table eating convenience store bento boxes, Iwaizumi decides they should probably talk about it.
“So,” he says.
Oikawa barely looks up, too busy stuffing his mouth. Iwaizumi wonders if he should wait, maybe to prevent a choking hazard, but decides that whatever Oikawa’s reaction is, it’ll probably be funny enough to justify being punched later.
“I called you captain during sex,” Iwaizumi says bluntly.
And, yeah, Oikawa chokes.
Little bits of rice fly across the table, and Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose even though he’s definitely had way worse stuff in his face. He slides a glass of water across the table wordlessly.
Finally, Oikawa spits a glob of something onto his plate, glares up at Iwaizumi, and says, “Seriously?”
“What, am I wrong?”
“That’s not the kind of thing you bring up during dinner, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa argues like they’re talking about organ failure or rigor mortis or something.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was kind of a big deal.”
“Well, it’s not!”
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. He knows Oikawa well enough to know when he’s deflecting. Someone else might not notice, but even in the dim light, he can make out a splash of crimson across Oikawa’s cheekbones.
“I called you captain during sex,” Iwaizumi presses relentlessly, “and you came.”
Oikawa’s entire face turns bright red. “You did, too!”
“Yeah, only because you did.”
“I - Iwa-chan, shut up!”
He looks so uncomfortable that Iwaizumi lets him finish eating, waits until they’ve both cleaned up the kitchen and found some stupid movie to put on T.V, and have crashed on the couch with blankets and pillows and enough snacks to wait out the apocalypse.
“Fine,” Oikawa says at last, but his eyes are fixed on the television. “So what, Iwa-chan? It’s not like you’re not into weird stuff.”
“So you admit it!”
“I - “ Oikawa blows out a sigh. “Fine. Yes. I like it when you call me captain, okay?”
His jaw is set, daring Iwaizumi to argue, but all Iwaizumi can think about is the next time his parents will be away on a business trip.
He says, “How much do you like it, exactly?”
-
“This is a terrible idea,” Oikawa says, tugging at the front of his shirt.
“I asked you if you wanted to do it, like, eleven times.”
“Just because I want to do it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Seriously, Iwa-chan, you should know me better than that by now.”
He lets the insult slide. He knows Oikawa is needling mostly because he’s too embarrassed to think about what they’re about to do, and what it’ll mean if it actually goes well.
They’re at Iwaizumi’s house again, thankfully empty for the weekend. This is important not just because Oikawa’s loud, but because he’s wearing their Seijoh uniform, the teal-and-white fabric clinging familiarly to the well-defined outline of his muscles.
“You ready?” Iwaizumi asks.
Oikawa blows out a breath with obvious effort. It took a while to get even to this point, despite that he’s clearly, desperately into it. A week ago, Iwaizumi made the mistake of calling him captain while they were at practice. Thankfully, they’d only had a couple minutes left, because as soon as the rest of the team left, Oikawa pushed him against the club room lockers, already half-hard, and shoved his hands down the front of Iwaizumi’s shorts.
There weren’t any accidents after that, but Oikawa still turned red every time Iwaizumi brought it up. Iwaizumi knows it’s because he’s so used to blustering and bullshitting his way through literally everything that the mental fortitude required to look Iwaizumi in the eyes and confess that, yes, he really is into something like this, borders on astronomical.
Personally, Iwaizumi can’t see the appeal. He’s more than willing to go along with anything that turns Oikawa into a squirming, open-mouthed mess, but he’s still admittedly perplexed by the whole idea. He wonders if it’s an authority thing, or something else entirely.
It’s not like he’s going to ask, though. The fact that Oikawa likes it is enough.
And now all of this culminates in the two of them standing in Iwaizumi’s dimly-lit bedroom, Oikawa in his Seijoh uniform and Iwaizumi still in school clothes, heat curling low in Iwaizumi’s stomach at the thought of what they’re about to do.
"Oikawa, are you ready?" he asks again, quieter.
Consciously or not, Oikawa straightens underneath the scrutiny. His eyes are dark and pinpoint-sharp, already dropping into character. Iwaizumi can almost hear his voice: now then, today, too, I put my trust in all of you…
“One more thing,” he gets out quickly, and Iwaizumi stops a couple inches in front of him, watching as the last traces of Oikawa’s nerves flounder. “Is this - “
“Weird?”
Oikawa fidgets, telltale.
Iwaizumi says, meaning every word of it, “If you wanted to try crossdressing, I’d go out tonight and buy the outfit myself.”
“Well, in that case - “
The idea of Oikawa in a dress or heels or some other frivolous ridiculousness straight out of a wet dream is more than he can handle right now, so Iwaizumi covers the last inches between them and kisses Oikawa firmly.
Oikawa’s head tilts as he responds, a familiar, eager slide of lips and tongue and teeth, pressing into each other hard enough to bruise. He lets Iwaizumi back him up against the bed, and then wraps a hand in Iwaizumi’s shirt and pulls him down, too, still kissing him open-mouthed and messy like breaking away, even for a moment, would be unthinkable.
Like this, though, straddling Oikawa’s hips, Iwaizumi can feel how hard he is already, and smirks against Oikawa’s lips. He knows it’s not just from the two minutes of kissing - knows that Oikawa’s hot and bothered just from being in his uniform, underneath Iwaizumi and all laid out like dessert on a damn platter.
“What are you laughing at?” huffs Oikawa, finally digging his fingers into Iwaizumi’s hair and pulling him back.
“Nothing,” Iwaizumi responds innocently, leaning down to nip at Oikawa’s bottom lip before he works a hand underneath the waistband of his shorts and adds, eyes slanted up to watch Oikawa squirm, already red-faced and wanting, “Captain.”
He punctuates this with a languid stroke of Oikawa’s cock, and Oikawa drops his head back against the pillow and moans.
And -
Okay, Iwaizumi thinks he might understand the appeal now.
He shoves Oikawa’s jersey up to his ribcage and pulls the shorts down to his thighs. “Oh, captain,” Iwaizumi hums without thinking, eyeing the flushed and twitching length of Oikawa’s cock, now on full display for him - “you really like this, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” Oikawa snaps, flushing all the way down his chest. Iwaizumi smirks again. “Just because you get to order me around on the court doesn’t mean you get to do it in bed, too.”
He trails his fingers lightly down the inside of Oikawa’s thighs, and watches through half-lidded eyes as Oikawa twitches but doesn’t give in. He’s stubborn even at the best of times, and right now his eyes are bright and unyielding and furious, like he can’t believe Iwaizumi’s just going to sit there and string him up and wait until he breaks.
“It’s bad for team morale if the captain starts begging,” Oikawa manages after a moment, not nearly breathless enough.
Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and begins to pump Oikawa’s cock in a slow, steady rhythm. “Promise I won’t tell the others.”
And it’s just sheer fucking luck that he’s still straddling Oikawa’s thighs, one knee braced on either side of him, because that means he can feel the tremor that runs through Oikawa’s body, the knee-jerk reaction that goes straight between Oikawa’s legs.
Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “Are you - “
“Shut up,” Oikawa snaps again, but it’s half muffled since his face is buried in the pillow, and Iwaizumi can’t help grinning because, well, the cat’s out of the fucking bag, isn’t it?
He sits up, working a hand through Oikawa’s sweat-dampened hair and coaxing his head from the pillow. This time, he’s looking straight into Oikawa’s eyes when he asks, “Do you want me to tell them that you begged me for it, captain?”
And this time, he gets to see when Oikawa’s pupils dilate, and Iwaizumi feels a rush of heat almost blindside him as he arrives at the realization that on top of everything else they’ve recently discovered, yes, Oikawa is definitely a little bit of an exhibitionist.
Iwaizumi kisses him, uncoordinated and filthy, and Oikawa pushes into it for all he’s worth. When Iwaizumi pulls back again, his mouth is slack and lips spit-slick red, and he looks entirely too debauched for someone who’s barely been touched, and Iwaizumi can’t even find it to tease him.
“Touch me,” Oikawa orders.
Iwaizumi thinks to himself, yeah, okay, I definitely get it now.
He grabs the lube off the nightstand next to Oikawa’s head, and, as an afterthought, discards his shirt. Oikawa’s shorts follow, landing somewhere on the floor.
“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa hisses, his entire body tight with impatience.
“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Iwaizumi, resettling himself at the end of the bed. He nudges Oikawa’s bent knee. “Spread ‘em, captain.”
At the first press of Iwaizumi’s finger, Oikawa tenses, his pulse thundering underneath Iwaizumi’s other hand from where it’s braced against his hip. He’s unused to this - if they don’t have mess around often, then they really don’t do this often, either - but they’ve done it just enough to know it can be really fucking good, worth every excrutiating second of preperation and teasing.
Still -
“Relax,” Iwaizumi murmurs, casting a glance up Oikawa’s body. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.
“I am relaxing,” Oikawa shoots back. “Just - “ His eyes drop down to where Iwaizumi’s hand disappears into his body, and he makes a noise that smolders almost painfully in the pit of Iwaizumi’s stomach.
“What do you need?” he asks sincerely, pausing.
“Distract me, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says in the tone of voice that means he’s annoyed at even having to ask, and Iwaizumi bites back a smirk at his setter’s ever-enduring lip.
He lubs up a second finger and presses it against Oikawa’s entrance. “You know, captain, if you wanted me to fuck you on the court, you could’ve just asked.”
Oikawa's entire body freezes.
Then a long, low-pitched moan rips violently from his throat.
Honestly, Iwaizumi is a little surprised with himself, too, but he can’t exactly stop while he’s ahead. “After a game, maybe,” he muses, scissoring his fingers, and Oikawa whines, high-pitched and pathetic. “After we’ve won, and everyone’s left. You’d like that, captain, wouldn’t you?”
He rubs against Oikawa’s prostate and feels him clench up, hard. “You’d look so fucking good,” Iwaizumi continues, working deeper inside him. He’s never thought less about the words coming out of his mouth, too busy imagining it - Oikawa, sweaty and flushed with victory, adrenaline still thundering through his veins, the authority he wears like a fucking crown whenever he’s playing still hardwired into his body. Shoving Iwaizumi down and ordering him to suck him off, fuck him, ruin him.
“Shit,” Iwaizumi swears, honest and surprised as his dick gives a painful, neglected throb. “Shit, Tooru, you’re so - “
“Hajime.”
He glances up and just about loses it. Oikawa’s jersey is rucked up around his ribs, a flush staining all the way down his chest. His eyes are wide and glassy, lips bitten-red and swollen, and his cock is curved dark and heavy against his stomach, weeping at the tip.
Arousal floods so powerfully through Iwaizumi his mind whites out for a second.
When he comes to, Oikawa is still glaring at him, red and debauched and so, desperately turned on. “Hajime,” he snaps again, rolling his hips against the fingers still buried in his body. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear to - “
With a herculean effort, Iwaizumi pulls himself together.
“Easy, captain,” he murmurs softly, popping open the lube with his free hand and drizzling it onto a third finger.
“I know what I can take,” Oikawa retorts, his voice tight and pinched. “Hajime - oh, fuck, Hajime - ”
With three fingers stretching him wide, Oikawa is a writhing, irritated mess, his back arching off the mattress. Iwaizumi rubs relentlessly at the live-wire bundle of nerves inside him, feels so wound up he could snap, but his captain is moaning like his life depends on it and Iwaizumi wonders if he could come just from this.
He’s so hard it’s almost painful, but he wants Oikawa to break first.
“Hajime,” Oikawa pants out again, trying to push himself up on his elbows, but every stroke of Iwaizumi’s fingers sends another shudder through his body. “I’m - “
“Do you want me to fuck you, captain?” Iwaizumi asks, crooking his fingers again. He watches Oikawa writhe underneath him, thoroughly blissed out and so goddamned gorgeous it hurts. “I need you to tell me what you want.”
“Fuck you.”
“Almost,” he says. “Come on, captain, tell me what you want.” His other hand digs bruises into Oikawa’s hip. “Tell me - “
He must hit a particularly good angle, because Oikawa’s head jerks back against the pillow, a violent moan wrenched from his throat. Then he’s scrabbling upright, panting, and Iwaizumi really, actually thinks he’s going to come before -
“God, Hajime,” Oikawa begs, “just fuck me already, please - “ and, well, who is he to say no?
Oikawa’s still wearing that stupid jersey, and Iwaizumi pushes it up even farther before bracing his hands underneath Oikawa’s knees and slinging them around his shoulders. He slides in carefully, but Oikawa doesn’t seem to notice the pain, moaning and begging like he’s come three times already. He’s breathing hard, pretty red lips slack and thoroughly bitten, and Iwaizumi leans up and kisses him hard, shoving his tongue deep into Oikawa’s mouth.
He’s not going to last, the way Oikawa’s hot and flexing around him, so Iwaizumi sets a steady rhythm for all he’s worth, hiking Oikawa’s legs further up his shoulders. They’re pressed so close together he can feel every breath rattle through Oikawa’s chest, and he knows it’s probably painful like this, neither of them incredibly flexible - but God it’s so worth it when Oikawa fists a hand in Iwaizumi’s shirt and pulls him close enough to sob in his ear, teeth scraping clumsily against the lobe, “Talk to me, Hajime.”
Gladly.
“Captain,” Iwaizumi murmurs, laying it into the side of Oikawa’s neck. “Captain, you look - ah, fuck - “
Oikawa tightens around him, heels digging into Iwaizumi’s back in a wordless plea. “Wish the team could - shit - see you like this,” Iwaizumi gasps out as he pulls back and drives hard into Oikawa’s body, and Oikawa cries out. “Wish I could fuck you on the court right after a game, you’d look so good - “
Oikawa’s eyes are screwed up, tear tracks glistening at the corners, and God, Iwaizumi loves him, loves him on the court or in bed underneath him, sweaty and powerful and absolutely fucked to pieces, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And he grips Oikawa so tightly it feels like his handprints will be stained onto the other’s skin, a physical brand of what they’ve done, and he kisses Oikawa again and again and just says it, the words spilling out of his mouth - “For fuck's sake, captain, just come already - " and Oikawa’s mouth freezes in the shape of Iwaizumi’s name, and his spine arcs off the bed as he falls apart, shaking and gasping and so, so fucking good, always.
Iwaizumi does his best to fuck him through it until Oikawa’s overstimulated and live-wire sensitive, dark eyes wet and wide and thoroughly blissed out. “Hajime,” he gasps out, reaching up, and all Iwaizumi can do is pant against Oikawa’s lips, everything tight and dizzy and hot.
“Keep going,” Oikawa whispers, tangling a sweating, shaking hand in Iwaizumi’s hair. “Hajime, keep going.”
Iwaizumi doesn’t honestly think he could stop if he wanted to. Oikawa after orgasm is hot and pliant and lazy, wrapping his legs tighter around Iwaizumi’s back, hard enough to hurt. He’s making these gasping, hiccuping moans, blunt nails scraping at Iwaizumi’s scalp, and he feels and looks so fucking good like this, and Iwaizumi knows he’s close.
He comes hard enough to see stars and some other poetic intergalactic shit, Oikawa’s teeth sinking deep into the side of his neck, leaving bruises for days to come. Iwaizumi pulls out and is immediately dragged, still disgusting and sweaty and trembling, onto Oikawa’s come-splattered chest, and he doesn’t even have the strength left to complain about it.
They stay like that for a moment - a moment that draws out like taffy, warm and sticky - catching their breath.
“So,” Oikawa says after a while, his throat vibrating underneath Iwaizumi’s head. “That was. Um.”
“We’re gonna have to wash your jersey,” Iwaizumi tells him, and feels when Oikawa turns bright red. “Those stains would be really hard to explain.”
He imagines trying to make up an excuse that would satisfy the entire team, too-nosy first years included, and that’s subsequent motivation to propel him upright, already rolling off Oikawa’s lanky body. “Come on, Shittykawa, let’s go.”
“Only if you shower with me later,” Oikawa says stubbornly, stretching.
“Fine.”
“And you have to tell me what you’re into, otherwise it's not fair anymore.”
Iwaizumi thinks there are a lot of ways that conversation would go, but any of them are worth getting Oikawa semi-upright, so he locks eyes and says again, “Fine.”
Oikawa’s grin could light up a whole fucking city, and Iwaizumi can't help wondering just what bullshit he's gotten himself into now.
-
"Don't speak to me," says Hanamaki as soon as Iwaizumi walks into the club room for afternoon practice.
He frowns. "Okay?"
"Don't look at me, don't breathe me, and don't even think about me, or - "
"Okay, what is this about?" Iwaizumi demands, dropping his bag on the floor and rummaging for his practice clothes. He honestly can't think of a single thing he's done to Hanamaki this morning - in fact, he thought it'd been a pretty good day, all things considered. Iwaizumi got a lot of his homework done during class, had yelled at Oikawa and the first years significantly less, and had even told Matsukawa that his new haircut looked "kind of decent."
The rest of the team files through the door, bickering about the latest episode of some soap opera they've all been collectively binging. Normally, Iwaizumi would yell at them to shut up, but for some reason he just isn't feeling it today.
"Ah-ha!" Hanamaki exclaims, jabbing a finger into Iwaizumi's face. "I knew it!"
"Makki, what the actual fuck are you talking about?"
Before he can answer, Matsukawa appears, wrapping an arm around Hanamaki's throat and hauling him bodily across the room. This creates enough of a commotion that the team, consciously or not, splits in half around the room, watching the show with a mixture of amusement and apprehension.
"Okay, guys, what's going on?" asks Oikawa, hands on his hips like a disgruntled mother.
"Oh, no," retorts Hanamaki, struggling in Matsukawa's grip. "You do not get to ask that question. Not in front of the children."
"The - the what?"
"Kindaichi, Kunimi, cover your ears."
It's a little gratifying that the majority of the team looks as confused as Iwaizumi feels, but he's still frustrated at the lack of answers.
Apparently, so is Oikawa, because he gives them all a scathing once-over before saying, "If I don't know what's going on in the next five seconds, everyone here is running laps."
"You and Iwaizumi had sex last night," Matsukawa blurts out.
Iwaizumi feels the floor disappear from underneath his untied practice shoes.
His first instinct is to look at Oikawa. His second instinct, being just a little bit too slow, tells him not to do that, but he looks anyway and basks momentarily in the lovely shade of crimson Oikawa's face has turned. Then:
"What?"
"Oh my God," Matsukawa says. "Look at them, Makki. They had no idea. They literally had no idea. Oh, God."
"Mattsun, what have you done?"
"You've destroyed the delicate balance of our lives," Kyoutani moans, which is so fucking stupid because - really, Kyoutani, too? Only the first years look shell-shocked.
Iwaizumi feels his temper spike. "Mattsun, Makki, if you don't tell me right now what the fuck is going on - "
"You were happy today," Matsukawa sobs from between his fingers. "You're grumpy as fuck any other day, but right after you guys do it, you're always happy. Oh, God. Don't kill me, please."
Iwaizumi desperately wants to say that's not true, but he glances at Oikawa again, and - yeah, okay, but still. Seriously?
"That's not fair!" Oikawa exclaims finally, sinking onto the floor with his head into his hands. "That's not - "
"Hey, if it makes you feel better," says Hanamaki, "I can just tell you when Mattsun and I have sex."
"You - you're together?"
Whatever good mood sex might've given him is thoroughly ruined, so Iwaizumi does the next best thing. He takes off his practice shirt, balls it up, and throws it as hard as he can at Hanamaki.
-
Three weeks later, Iwaizumi's parents leave on another business trip.
He texts Oikawa as soon as the front door slams shut, echoing through the empty house. Are you coming over?
Within seconds, his phone chimes. on my way, iwa-chan!!~~
An excessive usage of emoticons follows.
Iwaizumi just rolls his eyes and looks over his shoulder to the dress and heels displayed neatly on his bed, accompanied by a pristine tube of lipstick and a brand new bottle of lube, and thinks that with Oikawa, these kinds of things are either a very, very good idea, or an excruciatingly bad one.
But he finds that, with Oikawa, he doesn't really mind either way.